After Breakfast 

I slept well last night,

only waking up when the phone rang and her familiar voice brought me back to reality – “did I wake you up?”

 (I miss her, my home and my kids….) 

I keep the calendar tucked under my pillow. 

After Breakfast I sat out back on the porch studying the fence along the side yard.

(All those broken slats!)

I remember when the fence was new,

then I was a child and he had red hair and a booming voice.

He came out to pass the time with me and he complained about the broken slats and how he can’t remember who to call to have them fixed. 

Then he sits in his black chair,

white hair contrasted against it,

a kind of throne,

an homage to his sense of self that is always close.

The growing gap between them and now,

but in the chair that gap is not as wide,

it is closer, 

the way the water sometimes seems to the far horizon.


I walked around town for a while down by the river,

summer time in full bloom,

tired and missing home,

I thought of jumping into the river and letting it take me home. 

T.S. Deary 


One day in Novemeber,

a thick wet snow covered everything,

making the sky look like it was in a reckless turmoil.

We stayed home that day with no thought of sleeping in or staying in the house.

We went out with that turbulent sky above us and the wind tugging at us from every angle.

( a snow day! A cosmic gift out of nowhere to be eternally enjoyed.) 

We walked and made tracks in the snow to the hills,

to slide down on sleds,

over and over,

up and down,

over and over,

up and down,

(ths wind knocking hats off heads and pushing its icy fingers into our faces down the hill and into our backs walking back up.)

Then back home,

only long enough to dry out clothes and get warm by the fireplace.

(a welcome respite from that cold wind coming out of the west.)

All time suspended and standing.still,

the night would become even more cold and there would be nice in the morning – forming icicles that would hang of the eyes of the house,

sparkling in the full moon light,

until the sun returns and they begin their slow demise,

making a puddle on the ground that will freeze when the day gets late,

and he adds more logs to the fire,

the smoke rising from the chimney to be carried away by the wind. 

Out on the hill,

in the dead of night,

all is calm,

the trees stand bare and strong,

keeping watch for the coming dawn,

and waiting for all those echoed voices to return.

T.S. Deary