Weekend Rituals

It begins on Friday night, I don’t set the alarm clock.

I get to sleep in on Saturday and Sunday. I spend

half an hour contemplating the day: dead head

the buddleia, weed the front azalea patch, laundry.

Coffee is next on the agenda. It drips while I assemble

the rest of breakfast. Eggs to scramble, biscuits

to bake. Pour that first cup of coffee into my favorite

summer time mug. Scramble the eggs, biscuits

bake in the toaster oven which dings

when time is up. Butter the split biscuits;

on Saturday top with jelly, on Sunday honey.

The TV is my family, I eat in front

of it. Second cup of coffee joins me.

I make my list or I will forget the little

things like fill the hummingbird feeder.

Of course, poetry is high on the list;

it comes first each day. Look for journals

to send to, weekend prompts to keep

me writing. Except in the summers, working

in the yard may come first before the heat,

humidity and mosquitoes drive me indoors.

The reverse is true in the winter.

I look forward to these leisurely

mornings as I recover from the busy week.

Damselfly

                        After Cynthia Zarin

                        Blue Vase

            I am sitting in my chair watching the sprinkler turn

when the black damselfly lands on my wrist.

            I study it. Lacy wings fold over a black abdomen

with tiny yellow stripes. It sits there, not exploring my arm,

            its black eyes stare into mine. I don’t blow it off,

knowing it will not sting me like a sweat bee. 

            It spreads its wings, a slip of light, untamed.

                                                                        Heron Clan

Used to Be

I used to be a happy child in, riding my horse

Bareback, pretending to be a Cherokee. Now I am a somber soul.

I used to play basketball, starting with the neighborhood

hoops and moving on to college, played the bench mostly.

I used to show horses, even gained a B level in Pony Club,

now my spine is so twisted that walking is a problem.

I used to drink too much at parties, no fun drinking alone;

all those nights I blacked out. I should be dead.

Birding used to take me on adventures from Antarctica to Britain.

Today I bird with friends who don’t mind that I stop every 100 feet.

At the kennel, I was able to walk the biggest, strongest dogs.

Now I only walk the smaller ones, I teach the big dogs kennel manners.

50 pounds of bird seed too much to carry, I empty

it bucket by bucket until I can carry the bag to its container.

This body has faded on me. Need to make peace

with it and its limitations.   

I hold on.

                                                                        Magnets and Ladders

                                                                        2025

Spring                                                                                                            

The green tint on the hills slowly grows darker.

Columbine blooms in the back yard.

The last call of winter’s white throated sparrow

leaves only the locals at the bird feeders.

Asters put forth their leaves with the promise

of blooms in the Fall. Blond daffodils rock

in the spring breeze. The smell of grass

after its first cutting. Wake up to the chatter

of wrens.

Mornings enter the screened window.

Dog lazes in the Spring sunlight.

Weekend coffee on the deck hearing only birds.

                                                            The Hoolet’s Nook

                                                            May 15, 2026

Thanksgiving Tradition

Every Thanksgiving, Dad made turkey dressing

from the family recipe. Saltine crackers, eggs, milk,

onion with poultry seasoning and sage. He used

a big aluminum bowl that when younger I thought

was special for the dressing. Later, I realized

it was just the biggest bowl we had. Mom peeled

and chopped onion. Dad crushed saltines

in their sleeves then added the rest. 

Mom would taste test. In his later years,

Dad would add too much sage. He spooned

the stuffing into the cavity even in the skin

where the neck used to be. Sutured it up

with skewers and twine.

Mom got up early to bake the pumpkin pie,

put the turkey in to roast. Mom and Dad are gone,

my brother, Fred, is in Virginia. Really not much

family left. We don’t try to get together at Thanksgiving.

We both used to worked on that Thursday

or the Friday after. Christmas dinners in Virginia

are a major affair, beef wellington comes to mind—

nothing as simple as turkey with saltine dressing.

Old Mountain Press

They start as hunter green leaves

shaped like a heart. Uncoiling from the ground,

stems emerge with tiny buds, tight as a fist,

hint of what’s to come. Black centers are hidden

underneath sun yellow petals.

Unfurling slowly, they straighten

to reveal more of the center.  Finally,

petals extend to their full length,

exposing black eyes to many small   

wasp pollinators.

Fall comes, flower heads begin to wilt leaving

only the centers for birds. Dried stalks

are winter homes for beetles, leaves melt back

into the mulch covering the roots

from winter’s cold.

                                                                        In the Yard II

                                                                        Old Mountain Press

On a long, icy winter’s night

I, a traveler, find myself in the canyon of loss

with only my dog as a companion.

It is strewn with boulders large and small.

I am blocked from spring’s verdant valley.

I know it exists; I have seen it in my dreams.

Snow and ice blanket the canyon’s stones.

I stumble along the treacherous track,

faint as moon’s shadow.

The trail takes us up and down, whips

us from one direction to another. At times,

I just want to lie down in the cold, go to sleep. 

My dog won’t let me; there is no one else

to care for him.

Soon, the route becomes straighter but still rocky.

I learn to step only on flat stones, keeping

my balance. Finally, my eyes on the mouth

of the canyon, I begin to see the dewy grass

in the valley’s basin. The dog and I enter,

knowing spring will soon green the valley’s floor.

                                                                        Loyalhannah Review

                                                                        2025

Who Hunts the Hunter?

            The owl sat in the middle of the gravel road;

its wings an umbrella over some unseen prey. 

            It was noon. I wondered what it had caught:

a field mouse, lizard or snake. I drove the car slowly,

            the owl took off, I never saw its victim.  

            I was saddened by the demise of some small creature

but realized that the bird must eat, maybe feed its young. 

            But what hunts the barred owl.  A great horned owl.

            Who kills?  We all kill; the reasons

are many but fear of differences leads the way.

            Somewhere along our path, we will meet the great horned owl.

                                                                        Arlington Literary Journal

                                                                        2025

Puffin Coffee Mug

My brother gave me a coffee mug,

an Atlantic Puffin. The body

was black and white, the handle

an abstract head, white with the colorful

beak that gives the bird a clown-like look.

It has a good heft to it when in my hand.

It went in the cupboard with my other bird cups:

American Goldfinch, Eastern Bluebird. 

It reminds me of my birding

trips to Alaska and Maine.

I don’t remember how but the handle

fell off the body, the dog must have knocked it off. 

I was lucky, it fell into 2 pieces, the body

was not damaged. There was hope for repair. 

The break was in the neck of the puffin. 

Gorilla glue to the rescue. I managed to hold

the pieces together. You wouldn’t know the break

was there. The true test: will the mended pieces

hold when the mug was filled with coffee?

I don’t let anyone else use it for fear

of it breaking again. It is irreplaceable.

My brother gave me that mug.

                                                                        Silkworm

                                                                        Sept 2025