Mysteries

This summer I have been having weird and wonky dreams about being in my childhood home—“810"“ where my family lived in for 52 years. These dreams spurred me on to reflect on how it felt to be a child under 10 during the summer. After I wrote the first poem, I continued to think about other things that felt mysterious and were either about being a child at 810 or an adult at BookEnd.

The Mysteries of the World, part 1

I. 

On hot summer nights,

after chasing a sprinkle of backyard fireflies,

I would stretch out on my bed—

sheets pushed to the edge—

and, while drifting to sleep, wait for a breeze 

to make its way through the screens.

It seemed all the mysteries of the world

floated on the trill of the katydids, or 

hid among the sleeping birds nested

in the branches outside my window.

II. 

On bright summer days,

I would squint at a pile of clouds, or

squeeze the honeysuckle juice into my mouth, and

watch a red ladybug travel the palm of my hand—

each day I chased the secrets of the neighborhood. 

The rattling wheels of roller skating down the street,

sounds of the neighbor boy playing the piano, and

an empty carcass of a cicada hanging on our porch door—

these wonders hung in the air, as 

I cartwheeled through the yard before dinner. 

Mysteries of the World, part 2

 I remember little girl me

walking up and down 

my neighborhood street,

searching the summer sky.

 I believed

God and Jesus, 

Adam and Eve, and winged angels

sat behind all those piles of clouds.

Glory peeked through the crevices,

as they watched the world go by.

Of course,

I know better now.

Heading west on Delta,

flying above the earth,

I rest my forehead 

against the window,

scanning the peaks and canyons

and oceans of sunlit white,

and from the corner of my eye

see a path of footprints 

in the clouds beside me. 

Mysteries of the World, part 3

 On this blue-sky summer day,

with the clouds spilling over, 

if you were with me,

I would invite you to stand 

at the closed gate to my backyard. 

We would peek through the wooden slats . . .

and take a long, slow look 

around this little patch of the world.

There, we would see 

two house finches taking in a feast

at their feeder, several house sparrows 

(or maybe Carolina Wrens) 

sitting in a row on a nearby wire

watching them eat, and

one balancing on the end of a shepherd’s hook.

A huge hosta plant in my neighbor’s yard

with several of its flowers 

pushing through the wire fence, 

will be hosting a curious bumblebee, 

which will fly in and out of its lavender blooms.

We will also see how the pumpkin plants 

have overrun the back garden bed 

with their sprawling, leafy vines;

how the branches of the butterfly bush reach 

up and out; and how two returning 

ghost-like cabbage moths are flirting and 

racing each other to the clouds. 

Flowering mint, tall grasses…

orange day lilies… 

purple coneflowers… 

almost blooming black-eyed Susans…

will be leaning toward the sun to 

play their summer parts.

I want to be this 

un-self-consciously alive. . .

Do you feel this, too? I will wonder.