Sun Catcher ...

Delia was my grandmother. I can still see her in that cold kitchen, the old wood-burning stove starting to throw out some heat, the skillet in place, waiting for warmth, a dab of oleo, an egg.

The kitchen faced west, but there was a side window that caught a bit of the morning sun. That's where the "film of frost gathered the gold ... poured it softly, like warm milk ... "

Of course, our memories become polished with much handling ... they take on a sheen far beyond that of the original event, and that has happened with this mental picture I still carry with me.

Oh, how I treasure it. The poem was originally published in A New Song:

Sun Catcher

A film of frost

gathered the gold

of morning sun

on the window,

poured it softly,

like warm milk,

into the kitchen

where Delia

stood working,

embracing her

with a radiance

like the words

of her prayer

being whispered

to the music

of preparations

for another day.

© 1998

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Stormie, thank you!

***

Today's word: sheen

Who Lives There? ...

This is a poem that came to me on the bus, was largely written on the bus, because it took hold of me ... and wouldn't let go.

Over time, I became aware of that window, that struggling plant. It got so I was watching for that cracked window each day when my bus went rolling down the hill, or climbing back up it on the way home.

I kept expecting to see someone at the window, watering the plant, turning it to face the sunlight, or simply looking out at the passing traffic. But I never did.

Still, the plant hung on, seemed to be growing, leafing out slightly, and I kept wondering who lived there with it ... "what small measures of encouragement" they shared.

Originally published in Poem, now part of a manuscript in search of a publisher:

Who Lives There?

In an upstairs window,

below a sagging

gutter, beside siding

wind-peeled and flapping,

beneath a window shade

water-stained and torn,

behind a pane cracked

diagonally like a fragile

promise, sits a spindly

plant taking what sun

it can on a winter day,

while my bus struggles

in its uphill climb

toward a daily nagging

question: Who lives

there with this plant,

and what small measures

of encouragement do they

have to bridge the days?

© 2006

***

Today's word: encouragement