TheRealTamara

Today

We didn't have plans
For big trips or even 
Little adventures. We 
Just assumed we'd be 
There for each other 
And for tomorrow

What o’clock?

Is it cruel to note the time
So soon after we lost an hour?
Time shifts, in a timeshift, 
An hour ahead, an hour behind
Fall back, Spring ahead, more
Light, longer light, daytime
Still and it's now half past five

At once, once upon a time

She holds two things in one
Hand and grabs another in 
Her free hand, a balancing
Act that I admire. I could
Not do that. When could I
Juggle so many things at
Once, how old was I when
I could manage what she's
Up to, how old is she now?

Attractions

It's your gravitational pull
That weakened me, made 
Me wobble, like Saturn is
Drawn to Titan til it walks
Sideways through the sky.

Snow days

It hugs the bark, held in a
Mutual embrace, holding 
On against all odds, in the
Warmth of melting snow
It drips off balconies, yet 
It blankets the rough pane,
Covers the edgy spaces on
This otherwise independent 
Tree, in surprising symbiosis
Between snow and tree, the 
Trunk stands bearded with
A dash of cushy white, will
The snow hold last another
Day?

Tomorrow

When I was young, I looked ahead
To years I would spend facing the
Great unknowns, the unexpected.
When I was young, the future was
Not in the rearview but it loomed
Near and far. The future was just
Where I wanted it. Where it should
Loom. It was all my tomorrows. I
Loved its mystery. I anticipated 
The twists and turns but did not
Know where it would lead me nor
Where I would follow. Today, the
Tomorrows may be fewer but I do
Not know what that future holds. 
Now, that I am not young, I hold
The hope that the future brings a
Little closer and tighter. It will be
A surprise, I hope. Unexpected, a
Mystery lies in my tomorrows, or
Maybe if I am lucky there will be
Many mysteries. Still even now.

Along Northern Blvd

The churches along Northern
Boulevard are sprinkled next
To eateries, intermittent but
Fewer than the restaurants, 
Of all denominations that dot
My route. A taste of America, 
As befits a melting pot, its mix
Of cuisines a potpourri of all
Our origins, in tribute to where
You're from and where I'd like
To visit

Walking his dog

He wears open-toed and
Backless sandals, as if 
To confirm that it's his
Sunday and he's still or
Should still be relaxing
In his jammies, or would
Be, if the little pup hadn't 
Forced him to the street

Burt’s dad David

1. So often it is the small things,

The little acts or habits a son recalls,

Fondly remembering gestures,

The tilt of the head, or the scrape

Of a spoon on a breakfast plate,

Those were endearing, dear man,

Minute but specific memories of A father beloved and lost,

Watched over with affection, While he cleaned […]
Burt’s dad David

My mother-in-law, Frieda

She waits wearing her jacket with the fur collar,

Perfectly still, perfectly made up, her handbag on her lap,

If she is anxious it doesn’t show

She is as still as a statue, her snow white hair neat and combed

Her legs close together, her skirt pulled down,

Her gloves held loosely, rest on her […]
My mother-in-law, Frieda