Fantasy of a Flathead Shovel

Little Boy with Big Shovel


The boy with a flat-head shovel
lifts leaves
up
and down they slide
a waterfall of brown leaves
flowing back into the
big brown pile of leaves
his father
builds with his back turned

The flat-head shovel dwarfs
the little boy who tries again
lifts leaves
up
and down they slide
a waterfall of brown leaves

Not a leaf falls into the tall can
that dwarfs the little boy
nor does his father know
raking more brown leaves
into the big deep pile
with his back turned
to the drama
of a little boy dreaming
the leaves won’t fall
back this time
but will fall in

________________________

Once in a Blue Moon

It was a blue moon last night, the second full moon in the month of December.

Today I try to think of all that has passed this year, and the only parts I remember are the extraordinary ones. I don't remember all the meetings I went to, all the chores I did, nothing special about the ordinary things.

I remember the day I knelt in the beach sand and prayed the 7th Step prayer with a sponsee to the tune of ocean waves.

I remember the long ride all the way up California to the Oregon border and camping in the big trees on the coast. I hiked with one of my daughters and watched my other daughter blacken marshmallows over the fire.

I remember the Best of Show ribbon hanging onto a flower arrangement I had made for the mid-state fair.

I remember the moment my poem was read as the winning poem at the Central Coast Writers Conference.

I remember the first night at the mental hospital, surrounded by people with serious mental illnesses, while all I suffered from was depression. It made me grateful to have depression. I remember weeping on the floor of the closet and praying out loud the first three Steps. I remember the peace that gave me.

I remember hearing myself read my poetry on the local NPR station, surrounded by my dear friends, all of us glued in to a tiny clock radio because it was the only radio in the house. (I just remembered that I should buy a boom box one of these days.)

I remember many poems pouring out of me this year. I remember my poetry reading in the small city to the south of us. It was glorious.

I remember these times, which are the equivalent of once-in-a-blue-moon stuff. It has been a great year, full of joy, sorrow and fear, and everything in between.

I hope your year was memorable, and filled with the love of family and friends.