Goodbye, Spring

2ND AVENUE MEDITATION GROUP

Diligently she works here

long hours, speaking not only

a different language from

the city norm

but also a continent away

from this Chinese family run business.

On her days off she sits in the

customer chair closest to the

open window

watching the tram, a sky gondola,

drift back and forth across 

the tidal strait as her clothes

wash/spin.

We could talk, she and I, but

something in her pose

asks not to be intruded upon.

I smile (in case I'm wrong) and

fish out my crossword puzzles.

I feel like designing one myself:

5 across ten spaces

"quiet world for restoration"

l a u n d r o m a t

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Tucked in a Notebook

It's the day before Father's Day and I chanced upon on old poem in a notebook. Behold! a Father's Day poem from 1984. Serendipity!

FOR FATHER ON HIS DAY

She said she was the daughter

of the Bishop of Ormsby.

Three times she said it,

the kind of remark

which could have been irritating

to the listener, I supposed.

The reactions could run

from resentment, "Who

does she think she is?" to

disinterest, "So what?"

But in her glowing reminder I caught

a note of such admiration and concern,

I understood a sudden kinship.

I knew exactly how she felt.

I have been guilty of the same effusiveness.

When giving my opinion, creed, or cause,

how often has that enthusiastic pride

surfaced!

Has there been a day when I did not

at some point gratefully blurt,

"Well, my father always said..."?

I am glad to report

there has not.