Saturday Morning Thoughts

I find
great pleasure
in kissing
my husband

I find
much joy
in slipping on
cashmere socks

I find
my stomach
growling
wanting pancakes
but going to get
oatmeal instead

I find
my thoughts
to be very tender
about my sweet
dog, Summit

The Dryer

I cannot think of a comfort today
That surpasses the cozy warmth
Of holding freshly laundered
Sheets and towels
On a cold winter's morning.

Ice Skating

I have this idea in my head
And I can't quite get it out
About how delightful it would be
On this cold and clear winter's day
To hike up to Smith Lake
About a mile or so
Put on a pair of skates
And glide the afternoon away.

We would leave about 10 a.m.
With a picnic and a thermos in hand.
Together we would have the loveliest of days.

In my head the ice is thick and smooth
No chance of a crack in the ice or a fall on my bum.
I would gracefully glide around and around,
Twirling when I fancy and going backwards too.

I have told Tom my idea every day now for the last week or so
And he smiles and says he likes the thought too.

But the problem lies in that it is very cold outside
And it is really quite blustery now
And I don't like to skate, because
The inevitable fall quite drives me away
And I don't have skates and neither does Tom
And yes, the excuses go on and on.

There is a certain enchantment
In things not experienced before.
Some we figure out and turn into adventure
But this one, I think is best left to my daydreams.

Weighted Wooden Bookshelves

His bookshelves stand far above the ground and are weighted with a lifetime of thought, enjoyment and study.  A frozen biography of the man he was.  Each seems to hold a purpose, a story beyond the writing on each page.  I cannot resist standing in front of them, gazing at their covers, then opening them to look upon the mysteries stored within.  I find favorites of my own -- Wallace Stegner, John Irving, Annie Dillard.  There are others too, both familiar and new.  Some immediately capture my attention and others I skim quickly past.  And I want to sit with a cup of coffee and go through each shelf with my friend, who now has me fascinated by his books on the weighted wooden shelves far above the ground.  To hear now the stories, the passions and the learning he has found within.

Italian, Spanish, Annotated California Codes, Steinbeck, the Old West, an unabridged dictionary, chickens, a Bible, birds, natural history, algebra, calculus, Greek mythology, Cheyenne Indians, novels too.  There are books with cobwebs and dust thick upon them and ones used for research and reference with notes and dog eared pages. Few have been left unopened, most studied and read, some glanced at not long ago.  They hold a life of their own, a history joined together of a man and a view into who influenced his thoughts and ways. 

Within moments I know we share interests but they diverge as well.  Yet still, I am now more curious to know the man whose house they lay within.  Educated in the way of life, who knows his mind and his thoughts, who studied and wasted not time in his actions and is patient. Someone I like to have as a friend.  The kind of person with whom I want to talk and ask questions.

The story he has left open for me to see by his weighted bookshelves far above the ground.