pink
Cherry trees
remember Japan
in Pennsylvania spring.
Soft rain mists down,
petals float in puddles,
bathe in the pond.
Weak sun, drizzle
glows pink
under cherry blossoms branching,
over cherry blossoms fallen.
Different colors, varied sizes
yarns pass through my daughter’s fingers.
Looping them together, shiny hook
holding her place, she
gathers strands, passes them
over the hook, pulls them
through the work.
Here’s a fish.
Here’s a snake.
Here’s a heart.
(Turtles are her specialty.)
Once in seventh grade, she
crocheted a volcano, complete
with magma chambers
and lava flows (removable).
Once she made a solar system:
multi-colored hollow balls all sizes
planets
dangling from her clothes hanger.
She gives everything away.
As for Australian Aborigines whose
paintings renew earth,
work completed has no value.
The point is just to do it.
Somewhere, sometime worlds exist
because Elly makes them (and doesn’t
forget the snails.)
I have an island.
It's tropical, beautiful clean sand, lovely palms
(coconuts, dates, etc.,)
warm breeze, gentle surf,
paradise.
Perfect.
Well, no. Not perfect.
I get bored on my own, add
someone: an imaginary man
(based on reality),
with whom I'd like to spend time.
Difficulties: how do we get there?
Fall off a ship.
I wear a lifejacket the entire cruise; I
hate even the thought of cruises.
He falls in, and since he isn't
dumb enough to wear a lifejacket
on a cruise, I jump in after
with a lifesaver ring.
I hate deep water.
Also I hate jumping from heights.
But I do make it in time
to where he's treading water. Somehow
we manage to swim to the island.
You know, there are no toilets
on a deserted tropical island.
We have to invent a place to "go."
Exploring inland, we
luckily
find clean water.
And we find mosquitos--starved ones.
We build a shelter of sorts, and
sleep in a hammock since a mat on the beach
exposes us to hungry crabs.
They cover the beach nightly.
There are some plant foods,
(we're sick to death of coconuts,)
a few edible fruits, some
nasty papery-tasting roots.
And there are fish.
(We are also pretty damn sick of fish.)
We learn to make a fire.
Raw fish are vomitable.
Just when things
are starting to smooth out and become pleasant
a fishing boat spots and
rescues us.
They speak Dutch.
We limp along in communication,
bits of English and German, during the
two weeks it takes us to get home.
There is something seriously wrong with my fantasy life.