Deliverance

Three inches of rain! On the Kansas prairie,
those drowning in dust open their throats.
Listless milo, stunted corn, ragweed

and wild alfalfa stand tall. Only the Western
spruce, backyard survivor of endless high winds,
branches burned brown by waterless skies,

shows no change. Its owner, at ninety twice the age
of her tree, tough as buffalo grass, fragile
as winter wheat at harvest, jokes, “Everything is half dead

and half alive, including me.” We call for an expert.
The County Agent pokes and pinches, breaks off
brittle twigs, notes how few nodes the tree produced

for spring growth. When he delivers the news --
we could wait and see how it does through winter,
hope for revival – I’m tempted to agree. But when

my mother says, “Let’s cut it down,” I understand.
Finally, something she can relieve of its suffering,
something that can submit to the saw's blunt blade.

 published in Writers' Journal

  It’s Just Dessert – Or Is It?  

We linger after dinner and talk
about our favorite childhood desserts:
cherry and apple and lemon icebox pie,
devil’s food cake, chocolate chip cookies,
and nothing’s changed from those nights
fifty years ago when we sat at table
waiting to see what got baked
for our consumption,
but now we are the bakers
and it’s only for special occasions, birthdays,
anniversaries, Thanksgiving,
and only when we don’t go out
to some fancy restaurant for crème brulée.
I don’t regret the eager gluttony of childhood
but know better than to think it can continue
into old age without consequence.
These days I try to train my body to think
a piece of fruit will do.

Still, for Thanksgiving, I need pumpkin pie
to make me feel thankful. For Christmas
my mother’s special cookies bring the holiday to life.
It may be dessert but it’s also those childhood
scenes of love gathered around the table, hands joined,
looking past the year’s sins, Aunt Lurline’s loud perfume
wafting above the gravel of Uncle Jim’s voice,
as we listened hard for Cousin Sam’s jokes – he always
kept the swear words in despite my mother’s shushing –
and kept an eye on the disappearing mound
of mashed potatoes. Never enough potatoes but –
miracle of miracles – always enough pie.