On a small Ohio farm in the 1970’s, my cousins fixed Ford Mustangs in a musty old garage. A round blue transistor radio played a rock AM station while they worked and laughed and sometimes fought.
There was corn being grilled outside for dinner and bonfires burning bright on summer nights.
I shelled sweet peas in the yard with my great-grandmother and for every pea I’d throw into the bowl, three others were eaten.
There was long hair all around, a motorcycle buzzing and the James Gang playing softly in the background. There was a pool table in the basement and sometimes basketball was played on a tattered hoop.
The soft pillows on outdoor wicker had brown, orange and green squares.
A short time ago I walked into a dark, antique shop on a dusty city street and saw a radio gleaming on a shelf. Memories washed over me in huge, sheltering waves.
One of the best things in life is the love of an old dog.
Dear little rose buds, you were the only two left
after the deer dined in the early humid haze.
I am tempted to pick you but I take a photo
instead and hope to see you again tomorrow.
Sometimes I want to go back to another time.
Nostalgia wraps it’s warm carress around my thoughts—
and I am tricked into thinking it was all better in the past.
with coffee, or hot chocolate, tea, or fresh cider—
humility, curiosity and enlightened thoughts of peace—
dragons, or mermaids, or fey fairies with wings…
Reeds bowing gently in the wind—
you know exactly how to bend
so as not to break into pieces.
A man (that I love) once told me:
“People who sleep in the middle of the day
aren’t taking life seriously.”
I climbed the loft steps to take an afternoon nap,
and dreamily thought: “He might just be right.”