From the Kitchen Table
by Pat Laster
Droplets
of last night’s rain
converge on the roof’s edge,
pause for a moment, then sparkle
and fall.
a great blue heron
between the empty beach chair
and the rising tide
migrating monarch
drinks from purple gayfeather
chalk maple turning
rushing outside
at the sound of geese
the fiery sassafras
beautyberry … so
loaded with purple clusters
it droops
six-foot wingspan
one great blue heron lifting
from the algae-filled pond
the river’s color
changing
with its depth
the first frost
home-run ball lost in the weeds
now visible
on the river
finding solitude
without loneliness
the sound of rain
but none falling
only the leaves
flock of blackbirds
settles on the cotton
no scarecrow around
library visit
the child in awe of how quiet
grown-ups can be
the butterfly bush
purchased in a cardboard sleeve
now a spreading plant
a young granddaughter strips
the long-awaited blooms
first frost
the coarse-weave blanket
holding my warmth
spread-eagled sedge wren
grasping the parallel stems
of dried grasses
You haven’t seen the sky:
My, it’s been too long…
10,000 days and nights
of sun,
blazing like a scorned lover,
Drove us down,
down,
down…
I use my memories
to keep me strong,
but I can’t lie:
It gets harder as time goes on…
Such a wonderful thing to behold,
You haven’t touched the grass…
Wind rippling the tiny blades
like fields of petite soldiers;
endless day
became too much:
Heat killed it all!—beautiful green
yielding to shriveled brown:
The surface, once serene
Is now only a baked, bleak mass…
You never saw the sea:
What an incredible sight!
Full of power,
Rich with life;
But the days grew long…
then longer…
Only a prelude,
The oceans receded following an initial swell
then,
ironically,
the planet became an arid, parched Hell.
Now the few that remain are down here –
Trapped underground in perpetual night…
You are young –
Newly born –
and I can barely express the many
reasons that we mourn;
for this eternal dark,
so forlorn,
we traded pitiless day above:
In truth,
we yearn for the solemn, enduring stars.
Lost as Noah’s raven,
We still wish for his sacred dove;
to survive,
we need Saturn, Venus and Mars…
In the end, it wasn’t
terrorism, disease or political strife
that left us so undone,
but pollution, denial and rolling of the cosmic
dice...
Are you the future?
I hope, but cannot tell.
Regardless, here’s my dying advice:
Stay out of the heartless sun!
Poem from the Future
by Jason Brock
(For Ray Bradbury)