Three Poems
By Sara-Lynne Simpson
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Braiding Strands of thick elementary school yarn, orange, green, and dull yellow, knotted together at one end. Nana Lynne helped me find the outside-over-the-middle-one pattern. “Give each color its little turn,” her voice sang my 4-year-old fingers along. Afterwards, we tucked it in the tiny magical drawer of the entry hall table, her floral perfume wafting in sweet ribbons through her Tacoma home. Christmastime, and she tied the sash of my blue satin dress that night, a wide level bow, perfect for her festivities. I kissed my cousin Teeter, in the circle of more than thirty relatives’ chairs. Laughter rang from all the grown-ups. Nana Lynne faded with the next spring flowers, beloved lilacs, iris, pansies, and peonies, passing away just days into summer while I was still five—too young. Her side table sits in my dining room now, with its inlay, its stately mirror, and a tiny drawer full of wild bird feathers and braided recollections. ##################################### I tuck the red set sun into a Ziploc of dreams we run, launch neon bright kites on a beach, chuffing the sand’s anthem, lick salt cones of wind and spray, spin the seagull jukebox, zig-zag through disputations of teen girls unhooked on loud towels. Our strings cross, kites throttle like Harleys and donut down, buzz the slicing surfers, plunge into indigo swells, we jitterbug across seafoam, shorten tangled tethers and reel them into shore. Tropical fins leap the waves—trail giddy flashing tails. Our lungs squeeze laughs from one accordion and the monkey dances. We strap a jangled basket with bungee cords, pedal our tandem bike into flight through electric blue. ####################################### Sisters A full breasted crow unapologetically bends the tip- topple of a tall cedar tree, squawking. It occurs to me, as a full breasted crone, we have some traits in common-- loyal tidbits and dark wings held close, remembered faces, some canny revenge. I glide on up the road, unrepentant, twisting expectations and caw-caw! But no stones in this craw. |
