Waiting for Me


The fever broke midweek, but not the vision
in the front of my mind of a place I’ve never
been. It is in the part of my mind where the

seen and the unseen meet. It always starts
in the same spot down by the bayou. The
water seems still in the summer heat. You

might throw in a stick to see if the water is
really moving at all. There is a flat bottom
boat tied to the dock silently waiting.

Waiting for me? Maybe. But I can sense
that life on the bayou is waiting for the next
rain. As is the big oak on the bank. Its moss

sways from a gust out of nowhere. Rain is
coming again. If I look up the hill, the muddy
bank turns to patches of grass here and

there. I can see two oars and a long pole
hanging on the downhill side of the small
tool shed that sits 
in the shade of a big

oak that covers the back right corner of a
house. A sweet 
porch runs the length of the
back of the house. There are two doors.

One on either side of long bay windows.
I’m guessing the left one goes to the
kitchen; the other to the master bedroom.

A few tables and chairs dot the deck. And
there is a big rocker like you see outside
Cracker Barrel on the other side of town.

For a moment, I thought I saw the hanging
bench move that sits at the left corner of
the house. I can hear a car pass in front

of the house. I can tell that there is a church
down and across the street from the house
because I can see the top of the white steeple

from down here. My eyes return to the swing.
Her skin is dark ebony; smooth and soft,
younger than her years. A few streaks of

white in her beautiful thick hair. And it seems
that she, too, sits waiting filled with God’s
grace and peace.

Waiting for me? Maybe. But I can sense
that life on the bayou is waiting for the next
rain.

Purple


if I could see magenta
I’d tell you

but I can’t

if I could see mauve
I’d tell you

but I can’t

besides taupe isn’t
really a color is it

if I told you I feel
blue there is so
much more

on a day like today
filled with struggle
and pain

I want to tell you
I feel purple

but I can’t

My Road


life is pulling me
down a road I
don’t know

or do I

if it is the same
road as before
I believe

I missed my turn

or if it is a new
road I’m too
weary to tell

is that the wind

no it is the sound
of my breathing
my heartbeat

I must trust God

step by step the
road narrows a
single road sign

silhouetted in the
surrounding light
beckons me

the pole bears a
street sign with
a single name

my name

this is my road
a way only I
can go

Odds and Ends No. 69


I’m still in Oxford by way of Endeavor
back to Inspector Lewis but not sure
why I’m watching these over and over.

A middle of the week martini is rare for
me as was the salad. It was either that
or throw the lettuce out tomorrow.

The BBC must be part of my grieving
process or some process not sure
at this point.

What could have been a productive
book editing day turned into a so-so
OneNote vs. Evernote shoot out.

Add to that late afternoon thunder
storms and the day was meant to
be weird. The joy of the day was

texting you, loving you by emoji
and laughter that neither of us
could hear, but could feel deep

down inside we miss each other
so very much. Martini, salad,
cheese, and a few crackers with

Lewis and Hathaway where I
found them ten years ago made
me think about where I might

be ten years from now. Then, I
decided that wasn’t a good idea.
When I had a plan the future

went awry. Wrong plan. So, I don’t
have a plan beyond today and the
future remains a mystery. I put my

dishes in the sink and decided it
was far better for me to think of
you; so I smiled as I thought about

what it would be like to touch your
hand or trace your lips with my
finger and how lovely it would be

to linger over coffee with you every
morning for the rest of my life and
talk about anything at all.