By
ANNE WARD-MASTERSON

Happy Thanksgiving! Hugs to you my family!
On the morning
You get up before you are ready
Lids sandpapering eyeballs
Mouth bitter with dryness
To let the dogs out
You’re awake
By the time you make it back to bed
Inexplicably weepy
No need for eyedrops before
Starting your hour of morning reading
Switching between Foreign Affairs
And Searching for Sunday
You can’t ignore the soundtrack
Of other generations
Haunting your eardrums
“Dream a Little Dream of Me…”
Ella Fitzgerald croons
“It’s just this time of year.”
You whisper to no one in particular
Your mother’s mother
DeeDee, long gone,
Settles in the easy chair by the bed
Legs crossing at the ankle
Gently nods in agreement
Her mother Mimi perches
On the dresser with a plate of Spritz cookies
That your father, younger than you ever knew him
Poaches to dunk in
His steaming mug of coffee
Harold and Virginia
Together again
Cut a rug
Without the pain of shrapnel or arthritis
By the bedroom door
Transitioning fluidly
To the next song on the
Ghostly wireless
“Beautiful People”
By Ed Sheeran
Papa Earl looks on, smiling
It’s only when your terrier
Bounds into the room
Barking vociferously
At Virginia’s swirling skirt
That the time stream
Tugs you out of the spiraling eddy
By the muddy bank
That is all time and no time both
Washing you away from your ancestors’
Holiday greeting
And pushes you onward,
To whatever awaits you downstream

10/1/20

Do you ever regret
going back to bed?
You get up
before the alarm clock.
Your Great Dane’s
soft whining
gets you out of bed and down
the stairs.
You let her out into chill
darkness to create new
dead patches
in the lawn.
All the while
listing to one side,
inner ear still
asleep.
Eyes a mix of cello tape
and sandpaper,
much better to
leave them shut.
In those long moments,
where the memory
of sleep reigns,
do you ever
force yourself
to start the day?
Not for work,
not to whittle
down the dishes,
or stack wood;
but to see how
the sun pours over
the mountains.
Greet the now golden clouds.
Sing the setting moon
to sleep.
Hear, again, the soft gossip
of songbirds and ravens.
Acquiesce to the sacred weight
of your dog’s head
pinning you to the
gritty porch step.