The Apple Stand

Early morning,

post-dawn mountain mist

sifted down the rock ledges

phlegmatically

and with a slowness

suggesting

saturnine lethargy.

The remaining

Smoky Mountain steep peaks

and rolling, highway-sliced

valleys

lay between

my father’s Thunderbird

and my first year

in college.

In the lap

of a hairpin bend

of two-lane asphalt

crouched

an apple and cider stand;

predatory,

and advantageous

for August travelers

in stationwagons

packed with families

homebound from Gatlinburg

and mountain-bewitched

to repletion.

It caught my eye,

this shadowed stand,

and we stopped.

The apples were arranged

in appealing

red and green baskets;

burnished, ripe,

and fragrant;

glittering

in the soft sunlight that fell

in grated wedges

through the leaves.

But what arrested me

more fervidly

was their vendor.

Behind the neat,

russet rows,

he sat silently;

languid eyes

that were woodbrown

and open,…

a smile

that only revealed

half a soul,

like a window

partially drawn wide,…

hair that draped

in a silken frame

around his lean

face…

I felt myself

move closer,

beckoned by

something in the hush

of nearby mountain springs,

the scent of apples,

and the apparent

strength of his hands.

I asked faintly

for a basket

of apples,

handed him a dollar,

and watched

as he wordlessly

and unceremoniously

emptied them

into a brown

paper sack.

“The basket’s not included.”

he said.

Those eyes withdrew

and I clutched the sack

as I crept back

to the car.

Isn’t it just like a man

to empty a basket

of apples

into a sack?

We drove on in silence.

Coolness And Flame

Leaves whisper quietly.

They fold over and around -
pale greens & darker olive hues –
sharing secrets
behind fluttering fronds
& soft bended tips,
slightly wilted
in August heat
& Southern afternoon
steamy gusts.

Like murmers between
intimate friends
words softly spoken
behind guarding hands;

"September's coming,
then October...
We'll flash, flare then fade
& be quietly trodden into
the earth
below.
There will be a short dance -
twirling, shimmering
skirts & coat tails
of saffron & umber,
crimson & ginger -
And then
we'll return.
Bursting out in a
fragrant commotion.

But for now
we ride sweet breezes
& dream of sleep."

Walking beneath them -
I reach up & pass
trailing fingertips
through their tendrils.

I sigh
& long for
the coolness
of their flames.

August 26, 2011 - 12:24pm - written at Provence Cafe in Nashville, TN

Happy Birthday To A Friend

If I could, I would take you –

at this very moment,

by side- along apparition, of course –

(as every Harry Potter fan knows

Is possible) -

to a bright & open & sunny café for breakfast

to celebrate this happy date in time -

your birthday!

We would sip café au lait

and nibble golden almond-flecked croissants,

sides of warm fruit

and glasses of sharp & sweet

orange sunshine.

The bookstores would call us

and we’d speed away laughing,

debating destinations

by numbers of shelves

or quality of treasure.

We would plunge into the stacks,

lifting aging volumes to our noses

and breathing in their history

as we debated purchases

and gloried over discoveries.

Then, foot-weary but satisfied

we would drift into the Tearoom -

smelling the poppy seed muffins

freshly baked

and the floral, fragrant Earl Grey

reaching to us from the front threshold.

We’d let the china patterned teapots steep

with their inner glowing amber

and we’d talk

and giggle.

And I would life a cup high

and thank the Lord

for the blessing

of my friend.

You’d wave me off

and laugh

with your light, dancing eyes

and declare that we Southern women

don’t talk about birthdays.

Or maybe what you’d say

is that time, itself,

is our friend

because years shared

in happy communion

only add

to Aladdin’s stored wonders

of thoughts, and mirth, and stories

and sometimes tears.

But I am miles away

from you, my friend –

at least for today.

And I raise my cup anyway

in celebration

of The Countess!

Written April 7, 2011 - 8:30am

Midnight January Snowfall

Raising the shade

quietly,

softly,

slowly

onto the predawn indigo sky -

the world of white

pushes its bright glow

of moonlit iridescence

past my motionless

spellbound form

and then across the quilts

covering you.

Dark frigid limbs

balance

ridges of powder white

and reach outward silently

above the pale, glimmering

coverlet below.

Then

as I steal back

undercover

to watch

the night hours pass

from my mummied warmth -

I absorb the sound of you

breathing beside me

and see the January sky

gradually

lighten.

The Jewel Quality Of Hope

Leaves glimmer

saffron & amber

but they are sparce this year

set like the random jewel

amid limbs stiff,

reaching, searching

framing them in borders

of slate & of honey brown.

Hope seems to hover

in the same

waivering manner –

not easily found

but strikingly beautiful

when it is

discovered.

11-12-10

8:25am @ Edgehill Café

to meet with Hillary

From A Tearoom

Laughter all around

encircling

lilting

gently lapping among china

cup meeting saucer

and the soft chime

of teaspoons stirring.

Voices caress my ear

with contented tones

friend close to friend

and also introductions and geniality.

Somewhere between a cup full

and a cup empty

my heart rate quiets

and slows

to calm.

11-10-10

1:16pm

Savannah Tearoom

October Suspended

Leaves dry,

stirred fitfully
by a cool breeze
pushing high
through faintly tinted
treetops above
and then bending low
to clear patches
in the still-green grass.

Autumn enters
quietly
pausing restlessly
in the shifting shadow
then resting aimlessly
in the growing shades
and hues
before the sharp brightness
of yellow, rust and orange
sits crisply
against
the silken blue sky.

October 14, 2010
1:34pm on a Scarritt bench

A September Rain

It fell -

Relentless.

Soaking.

Pitiless.

It drenched my clothes and hair

and filled my shoes.

Once inside my car

it obscured my view

and resounded like

the myriad faults and excuses and fears

that encroached,

swamped,

and threatened to lift roots up

from depth and strength

and bring down

oak firm security

with a towering crash.

But as I listened -

and waited -

I realized that the deluge

was from Him.

Complete.

Healing.

Filling.

Merciful.

Satisfying.

Compassionate.

At the end,

when the rainbow

emerged,

and shimmered across the sky,

and I stood recovered -

I found myself filled with thankfulness

that He remembers

the small defenseless creature

that is

me.

Shawnee Recalled

Crossing the road

is always

more difficult

than just gazing down

its limits.

A storm pelts the horizon’s rim,

(I can see the lightning

from here.)

and a remote windchime is carried

to my tingling ears.

Somewhere in this world -

when my singular, precious

time with you was over -

you were led

(probably not with docile steps)

to sheltered moonlit stalls,

where your blue eyes

would peer from the darkness

like sparks

in a furnace.

How often did I laugh,

or just peer cautiously…

wonderingly…

into their icy-white-blue

abyss?

Your coal-black mane

in tangled, hopeless snarls

upon your neck,

soaked up many a tear

and kept me in balance

on many bareback rides -

slipping under wind-stroked

sun-washed

sweet-scented Carolina pines.

No other creature

reacted as you did -

with as much fervor

or head-tossed retaliation to life.

I long stretch my fingers out

to touch you -

to wrap my arms in abandon

around your supple, burnished neck.

I miss those moments

when I knew you were mine.

Shawnee,...

And it seems so long ago.

Promise For September

End of August leaves
hang heavy & deep green
on trees
sated with summer heat
and drenching rainfalls,
ready to drift down
onto autumn grasses
and city sidewalks.

The air
holds a heavy warm haze
and the evenings
are noisily filled
with tree frogs and crickets.
Heavy blue ink-hued thunderclouds
rim evenings skies
with flashing, booming
murmurs.

End of summer flowers,
lean ground-ward
with heavy heads drooping,
bees slipping
carelessly
from warm bloom
to sun-blanched petal.

September hangs close
to the horizon
promising cool breezes and
crisp, sharp blue mornings.
I can almost smell
ashes carried in the air
from burning leaves
and simmering
cinnamon kissed cider
on the stove.

But not yet.

So I sigh
and step
into the sauna heat
that is

Tennessee in August.

Evaleah's Wild Rose - A Short Story - Conclusion

My heart began to beat loudly and I found that my mouth had become dry.

“I want you to make a promise to me too. I want you to marry Matthew when I’m gone.”...

She said it simply and in a low tone that told me of its pain at another having him, combined with the agony of knowing him alone. Her hands moved slowly over her stomach and I knew that there was also no other that she would rather mother her child.

I sat there speechless— in torment myself. I had never refused Evaleah anything.

The rain began and I took my shawl from my shoulders and covered my head as I continued to hurry toward Evaleah’s cottage. I knew that the miller’s wife, old Mother Trask, would be keeping the baby until I arrived. I wondered where Matthew Craigg would be.

The rain had turned into a downpour as I ran the final stretch under the oaks surrounding the cottage and through its oval-topped door. A modest fire burned at the hearth and my dear friend’s husband lay back in a chair asleep in obvious exhaustion. His face bore none of the hard lines that it held in wakefulness. There were none of the sharp, black glances that his dark eyes could send, only a worn, grief-stunned weariness that pervaded his features as he slept.

He wore a clean, worn black suit and I could see that his normally unkempt hair had been washed and combed. The clock on the mantle said that there were two more hours until they would cover Evaleah in the village churchyard. I looked for Mother Trask, but heard no one else in the cottage. Looking around the parlor, I wondered where the baby might be.

Slipping past Matthew, I discovered the baby in the bedroom, surrounded by pillows on the large cast-iron bedstead. She slept, like her father, in the same troubled sleep, as if she knew that her mother had been taken from her.

Rain pelted the thick leaded windows and I sat by the baby and stroked her short golden curls. On her pillow I saw stitched Evalise— a combination of our names. Tears tumbled onto the carefully prepared baby’s coverlet and I grieved for the gentle spirit that had gone.

For the first time I looked up and saw the headboard that Evaleah’s husband had fashioned from his craft. My breath caught in my throat and I studied it in wonderment.

The sides curved up as if they were wandering vines that sent out small shoots and sprigs of buds. They curled in gently crisscrossing spirals and I stared in amazement realizing the artistry that made up their detail. The buds were smooth and glowed with the buffing that they had received. The leaves curled in different lengths, some as in soft new growth and some as if they were heavy-laden with dew in the early morning. They all curved and intertwined until they met in the center of the headboard in a perfectly formed wild rose.

This was a work that had been fashioned out of love and out of a devotion that made me hold my breath as I followed the molded iron petals with my fingertips. Evaleah had seen a heart that no one else had even imagined.

Evalise stirred and woke. Her velvet-blue eyes met mine and I pulled her from the covers to hold her close to my heart. I looked up and saw that Matthew watched me from the bedroom door.

“It’s time. Mrs. Trask is here to keep the child while we are gone.”

I stood up, wrapped the baby tightly into her blankets again and followed the tall figure in front of me to the open doorway of the cottage. I stood for a moment and looked up into those dark, fierce eyes.

Matthew held out his rough, worn hand and, without hesitating, I took it.

Evaleah's Wild Rose - A Short Story - Part 3

... I knew that I would always be welcome to Evaleah, but I feared her husband with the rough soot-stained hands.

Evaleah’s wild joy at finding that she was with child turned to a fearful despondency as the months left her weaker, paler, less able to see the years ahead. I found her one day curled beside the oak tree that towered over the cottage.

I sat beside her and pulled her up, picking the grass strands from her hair as she sobbed into my skirts. She cried until there seemed to be nothing left and then she looked up from my lap with eyes full of misery.

“Elise, I don’t think that I’ll live to see this baby grow.”

“What? Evaleah, what do you mean, you’re fine, you’re strong.”

I stroked her hair, but as I studied her I saw that she was weaker than I’d ever seen her, and thin beneath her loose, flowered cotton dress. But I attempted to raise her spirits anyway.

“A lot of women become afraid, Evaleah, at this strange new thing in their life, at carrying the child, at the birth…. You will be fine.”

She shook her head and gripped my hand tightly. “No, this feeling is different. It is something that I just know, I can’t explain it. It seems that each day that passes leaves me feeling farther away— as if I’m floating downstream and no matter how hard I paddle, I can’t get back.”

She lay her head back in my lap and watched the clouds pass overhead.

“What does Matthew say?”

Her eyes brimmed again, spilling over onto her white cheeks. “He becomes angry and says that I’ll be alright. He won’t talk about it at all.”

She knew that I became angry myself because she gripped my hand and added; “But it’s only because it frightens him, and it’s so, so hard for someone like him to admit they are afraid, Elise.”

What Evaleah said about slipping away became more evident with each month that followed. The last month before the birth she lay silently in the bedstead that Matthew had wrought from iron that he had pounded in the shed nearby. I had not been back in the bedroom of the cottage since their marriage, and one day when I visited to bring Evaleah soup, I heard her calling weakly from the back for me to come to her.

The small, mullioned windows were thrown open and the afternoon sun spilled onto the worn wood floor as I sat down beside her. For the end of February it was unseasonably warm and birds beyond the window sill sang in voices that made Evaleah smile as she watched the waving buds outside.

“It’s good to see you, Evaleah. I brought you some pastries and some soup that I just made this morning. There is enough for both you and Matthew. How are you today?”

I could see her summon strength to speak and I smoothed the blanket that was stretched over her swollen stomach. “Elise, the baby will be here soon.”

Evaleah’s eyes seemed transparent as they tried weakly to focus on mine. “I need to talk to you very seriously, Elise, please listen to what I have to say.”

I took her hand. “Of course, there’s no doubt that I would listen to anything you had to say. What is it?”

She smiled a smile that told me that she expected argument to whatever she had to tell me. But I squeezed her small, soft hand and waited.

“I want more than anything to see this baby grow up, to love it and to be with Matthew, but I know I can’t, it isn’t possible anymore.”

She weakly raised her hand to stop my eminent words. “Don’t argue with me now, Elise, just listen to me and, remember, when we were little, we promised to always be there for each other. I’ve already spoken to Matthew about this and he’s agreed and promised to do what I’ve asked him.”

She stared into my eyes so deeply that I tried to look away. All of her spare strength she seemed to place into that penetrating gaze.

My heart began to beat loudly and I found that my mouth had become dry.

“I want you to make a promise to me too. I want you to marry Matthew when I’m gone.”

(to be continued)