Day # 327: Poetry on a cold night

# 327

Puzzling

My mom and three
of her grandsons
work on a puzzle
of construction trucks
I bought for a quarter
in a thrift store yesterday.
I watch and listen
to the dynamic.

"Here's a wheel piece, Zebby!"
"I think this one goes here, Gramma."
"Try turning it this way, Liam."
"Can I have that one, Niah?"

Fifty-eight year old synapses
fire off with three and two year old synapses.
Worn dirt roads
meet with brand new foot paths,
constructing concepts
of space and reasoning,
of communication
and cooperation,
all around my coffee table.

      c GRACE  11/22/15

 Baby with a Cold

I watched you sleep beside me

in the new morning light,

your tummy rising and falling

beneath red fire-truck pajamas

with each heavy breath.

I stared at your cherub face,

and wondered 

what you were dreaming of

and what your first words

of the day would be.

I wondered what kind of man

you might grow up to ber

and who else might watch you sleep

and think you are beautiful.

Then you awoke

and mumbled,

"Mommy, can I please have a cough drop?"

and I remembered 

that you are still 

my baby with a cold 

who needs his mommy

at least for today.

          c GRACE 11/23/15

Cold air, crisp and clean

wraps itself like strong arms

around my shoulders

Cold air triggers

memories of other nights

sweaters were worn

Cold air, go inside

find velvet warmth to subdue

embrace the winter's edge

11/23/2010