I’m raking, a meditation for writing in your head, like ironing or baking, or lavender baths. The pavement on Palace Avenue is under jack hammers and a yellow tractor is parked in front of my driveway.
Eight men, in yellow jackets, are, digging out the curbside shoulder of a two-way road, so traffic is cumulating in front of me. The sun shines on the traffic control worker, his face is crusty with an untamed beard, and bushy eyebrows. He appears to be in his sixties, but he never takes off his sunglasses, so I don’t know for sure. A gentlemen walked by, as I was maneuvering into the driveway with groceries, an open pack of red skinned potato chips, on my lap. As I got out of the car, I turned around, and he spoke out,
“ Exciting isn’t it?” He said smiling.
“ All the activity on the street.”
I shook my head, like an older person who can’t believe you’d say something so
bird at piano lesson with rock (Photo credit: Terry Bain)
stupid, and marched in the house, repeating what he said, and after a few times, I had to stop myself- I am doing a lot of that, ridiculing, criticizing, mocking and imitating strangers.
The bird, that was born last year returned to her nest to lay her own eggs. Spring, is contracting up through the ground, melting the last remaining buttons of ice, and there is new life, all new, here inside my ground, my fertile ground for love, torment, adventure, challenge, relationships, achievement, conversation, travel, hiking, horses, ocean, it’s all there, I didn’t lose it like I thought I would. You can still call me LouLou, I’m not all adult yet.