Ellipsis

"Grace before meals" 
waited to be spoken

on a melting summer's day,
sun's yellow-white

splashed with abandon,
glistening on metal.

Corn on the cob, zucchini grilling,

chicken sizzling . . . . . 
Things that taste buds remember.

So hungry was she,

waiting,

waiting,

waiting

for all to sit,

to say "Grace."

(Please, she hoped, let it be soon.)

She looked up to the right,

to the chic white deck chairs,

thinking vaguely about

her mother.

When she looked back

to the table,

all were eating with relish.

Beastly, thought she.

"Grace" neglected -- a disgrace --

and she'd waited so long just to say it.

Outraged within (poised to scold),
she exclaimed,

"We didn't say 'Grace!'"

Silence.

Eyes rose, then heads.

Husband said quietly, "We just did." 

The silence gaped.

She ventured,

"Did I?"

"Yes,"

husband said;

"Yes,"

friend said;

"Yes,"

all eyes confirmed.

The mute deck chairs,
stark and white,

gazed on.

Had they, too, seen her

pray?

Flicker

A flicker of memory

can burst open doors

long closed,

dusty and splintered

on the outside --

radiant and rolling hills

within,

endlessly unfurling . . . . .

Timeless.

Grassy valleys flecked with daisies and lavender,

wild cushions for a child's somersaults

and open-arms dreams

from sunrise to sunset,

to Heaven and back.

Who'd have thought

one could touch Eternity

through a tiny spark

of yesterday?

Premise

To the cynic,

uplifting words are

the patter of a leaky faucet

dripping.

To the hopeful,

uplifting words are water

glistening in the desert.

Stirrings

In the gentle lavender

of a cloudy day,

you are there.

In the pink hue 

of a little girl's

treasures and tea cups,

you are there.

In Robin Redbreast

and the pussy willows,

in the yellow burst of forsythias,

you are there.

In the crescendo

of grass and trees

into fullness of green,

you are there.

In the sunlight

soft and warm upon our faces,

you are there.

Grandmother,

how we miss you.