WELCOME TO THE BOOKMOBILE

So, your first day on the job.
Enjoying yourself so far?

We see George every other Friday
at this Senior Center stop. You'll see him
feel his way through the door, up the steps.
Legally blind, he asks us to read
the summaries on the boxes -- CDs
of novels we have guessed he might enjoy.

He nods at most, sometimes shakes
his head apologetically, not wanting
to give offense at our poor choices.
He favors intrigue, suspense,
dark deeds done in secret.
His face, conversely, is light full,
blue eyes sightless but bright
as a boy's. His voice, a pleasant
baritone, interrupts itself
with chuckles in almost every
sentence. He knows the follies
of the human heart, especially
his own, and thinks them wonderfully droll.

He should be coming soon; it's almost ten
o'clock. Get ready to be blessed.

NATURE WALK

Do you remember that April day,
a getaway (that's what we used
to call them -- getaways) when
we went for a walk in the woods
near that nature center somewhere
along the Blue Ridge, and I kept
calling your attention to the spice
bushes so often that you finally
said, "I've seen enough spice
bushes to last me for a decade"
-- or something like that -- and
I told you that it wasn't true
that when you've seen
one spice bush you've seen
them all because each one has
its own individual, unique beauty
and that to really appreciate
nature one should be more
aware of the particular
form and feature of each species
and you answered that this
outing would be a lot more
enjoyable if there was a lot less
commentary and a lot more
silence?

JASPER

He greets me at his door as if we
have known each other for years.
I phoned prior to coming.
All I know is what Teresa
told me this morning: his wife died
last year; he's had a rough go of it.
He has coffee ready to pour.

We chat about the dry spell,
the not-much-chance of rain.
He says he's spent the morning
freezing corn, fifteen pints so far.
He is pleased, but tells me
last year was better even though
then he was still taking care of Sara.

It is his way of bringing her
into the conversation where
she stays for the next thirty
minutes. By that time I feel
I have known her for years.

MOTHERING

Right over there, last month,
we came upon a turkey hen
with her five chicks. She
regarded us, rightly so, as
intruders. This wood was world
to her. We were aliens.
She clucked her innocent
brood across the clearing, herded
them into the brush. All but
one obeyed. He wandered well
away from safety, not knowing
where or when to turn.
We moved on, helpless to help,
knowing better than to try.
Half an hour on, we could still
hear the hen's repeated cry:
    Where did you go?
    Where are you now?
    Come here.

GRANDPA DIVULGES THE SECRET OF WISDOM

I'm not going to tell you
about all the dumb
things I did when I was
your age.

They would embarrass you
to hear them even more
than it would embarrass me to
tell them.

People my age are supposed
to be wise and maybe we are,
at least wiser than we used
to be.

Point is: the way we got to
be wise was doing all those dumb
things we aren't going to tell
you about.

PHOTOGRAPH

The day was hot, sultry,
the lawn large,
the mower loud and clunky.
At the corner of the house
I saw her, our pre-school pixie,
leaping through the waving shower
the sprinkler was bestowing on the grass.
I stopped, went inside for the camera.
Coming up behind her,
I clicked and froze
the moment.

        And now,
here in my hand, she stands,
forever holding her bowed head
over the spray, her eyes closed,
the smile on her face beatific,
the tug on my heart
bittersweet.

TURNIPS

Why? my brother asked when I told
him I was growing turnips.
I didn't have an answer.
It occurs to me now that I haven't
eaten a turnip since . . .
truth is I can't remember.
I think I did once,
or maybe twice, years ago.
But here they are in my garden, their
tops a lovely emerald green,
swaying gently to a melody
the wind is apparently playing.

Maybe I grew them because once,
more than half a century ago,
Danny Frey persuaded me to help
him gather turnips in the corn field.
We took some old buckets, went out,
and pulled them up, mottled
purple bulbs clotted with brown
soil we brushed away.
The wind was that nippy late
October wind that presages
icicles. We filled the buckets,
headed for the barn, the warm.
It's a good memory.

I like turnips because their beauty
is both above ground and below,
seldom seen, rarely praised.
I may not eat my turnips.
Who will know?