Quick Step

photoart: ralph murre

Quick Step

by Barbara Cranford

Come with me, my old familiar love,

to that long, resounding bridge

over the singing stream

and remember when we tripped

lightly, skipping sprightly

with Amaryllis in the spring.

As once in another life

in another place and time––

we two the same yet not the same,

as no leaf on any tree is the same

yet not the same, as last year’s growth

or next year’s yield––we will step slowly

around this autumnal glade.

We will be forgiven

our forgotten dreams

and all our broken promises

as our stately minuet

slips into two-step,

double-time and rag.

~ first appeared in Pegasus

remember cousins

artwork: ralph murre

remember cousins

by Barb Cranford

remember how they tumbled

suddenly into your backyard

where you were playing

with your best friend

older, boisterous boys

they smashed the sandcastle

scattered the buckets

and broke your hi-li paddle

after dinner they went away

with their parents

to wherever they came from

three who lived in Seattle

existed only as blurry faces

in the front row in snapshots

that arrived every year

 with your aunt’s Christmas card

one much-loved cousin, gone now

sent her poems to you

from a nursing home

you held onto her life line

as long as you could

some day when you are old

and living in the country

one you’ve never met

will drive into your yard

and walk slowly up the path

with sunlight behind him

amazed you will recognize

the image of your father

come clear across the country

to meet you

  

~ first appeared  in The Oak

the weaver

(detail) weaving: wence martinez

the weaver

by Barb Cranford

my life     the weft of it

the heft of all I am

the racing shuttle all I do

a lifetime to and fro

hunting in the warp of time

for patterns that elude me

yearning for order

striving to weave

sense     purpose     reason

into the next few passes

the drive     the thrust

always forward

precisely countered

by the desire to unwind     unravel

to do again but better

what willy-nilly

I have made

the random figures

of a lifetime’s ad hoc

trial and error

triumph and regret

~ previously published in Far From Here

To Paint Forgetting

photoart: sharon auberle

To Paint Forgetting

by Barb Cranford

Gesso a long narrow canvas thickly

and embed a gaggle of dirty bits

of rag, shards of bone, illegible lists.

Smear it carelessly 

with pale tints of some color 

I do not like––ochre perhaps.

There must be a broken grid––

maze after maze leading

to empty rooms without doors.

Lurid bursts of yellow, orange

and red will flash and fade,

throwing fearsome shadows.

A few gray feathers will float down

from a strange bird beating its wings

against the frame, top left.

I wrote down these instructions once,

but I don't remember why.

~ first published in FAR FROM HERE

The Windsor Rocker

The Windsor Rocker
by Barb Cranford

In the study, among the litter of books
and outdated papers, I toss a letter.
The angora cat stares at me, mewing
as though she wants to go out,
but when I squeak the rubber mouse,
she stalks away disdainfully.
I shuffle the papers, then drop
into the Windsor rocker and lean back.

To, fro, back, forth––I try to remember
a rhyme from A Child’s Garden of Verses
where a young girl tosses her tresses
and nibbles a crumpet. Out the window
the heirloom apple tree I transplanted
last season seems about to bloom.

Perhaps that letter will never be sent.
Later in the year I may leave this house,
find an apartment in New York
and compose a cycle of totenlieder.
The streets are crowded there, and noisy.
The people rarely watch the clouds.

~ first published in WriteOn!