The Trees Are Bare Again The season has come full circle the trees are bare again like the night we first kissed on the deck while the dog and cat looked on in wonder Our passion continued until spring when love was pulled from under before the leaves had fully unfolded you withdrew and the tulips bloomed without you A flamed burned on within my soul and when it had almost extinguished you called again and my heart burned with the passion for the coming of autumn But before the leaves had turned hopes for a new season had fallen And now the branches are bare again bereft of hope except for that damned spark that smolders without reason In The Basement Before Moving I've been sorting in the basement preparing for a move. Painful, these archival sortings of cabinets, closets, drawers and trunk. I've found old poems and unsold stories, photos from long ago in life before children. Once I drove a cab, was married to someone else. Once I fell in love and mired in my insecurities. Old briefcases bulge with once-important papers of partnership struggles and the evolution of a business. Most of it I keep to be sorted for the next move or to be treasured (I jest) by my children when they are old. There are pictures of the two cats and the garden at the little brown shingled house we rented long ago. Still life of a yellow squash and three red tomatoes - the emulsion on the photos has softened the reds. I've found notes for a film about about taxi drivers plotted to pass a course in film-making - my cameras never rolled. There are dozens of black and white photos of the old limestone Tuxedo Park commuter rail station where trains last stopped in 1961. The story about the hijacking of the helicopter made me feel like a real writer until the rejection letters came in. The basement storage room was once a coal bin and now it's jammed with camping gear and empty boxes and boxes full of tax records, cancelled checks, school papers and old MS magazines my wife refused to throw away. There are Christmas decorations - past and present - cards received and plastic Easter eggs and Halloween masks and the cat's carrier. I've saved old railroad and farm tractor calendars. I've given up hope of reading the old National Geographics I picked up off the curb - they've just been sent to the recycling center along with department store Christmas boxes. I've cleared boxes filled with bits of toys that no longer hold themselves in set - I rescued four Playmobil characters. Remnants of Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters and Jurassic Park finally filtered below the surface of garage sale awareness and into dust-coated parts on the old black steel shelves propped on a brick and anchored with bent clothes hangers to the joists. It is a never-ending task - what about this lazy susan I've never seen? Garage sale or keep? It gets wrapped into a bedspread and boxed. Angels A friend mentioned that Travis just sort of appeared at a sidewalk cafe one day when he needed to talk. Kinda like a miracle, he said. And I related that a couple of times last year Travis just sort of appeared at really opportune times when I was emotionally distraught. Maybe, I said. Maybe Travis is an angel. He just sort of shows up where he is needed. Travis always has that secretive grin that mischievous tease in his eyes. Sometimes he is half crazy; other times he is a wise man. Angel images have floated into my consciousness recently. Usually just an image formed by the branches of trees. Last night at dusk there was a whole flock of them kind of sitting there on wispy tips of cedar. I thought maybe they were waiting for something. Then I noted that my sense of their waiting for me to cross over to the other side was probably just a fear-based interpretation of the legacy of angels. They were really all my spirit guides watching over me, there if I needed them for something, there to guide And the one over at the left on top of the closest cedar was just waiting to wing away and summon Travis if my insides started to hurt again. Main Page This site sponsered by