The Uncertain Sky, An Elegy for Donna

Another Elegy for my friend Donna who recently passed away after an
aneurism and stroke.

The Uncertain Sky
An Elegy for Donna

As I draw a single line through your name
in my address book, not too dark, so I can read
the letters, not too dark, as if by writing lightly,
you might somehow return,
as I watch the pencil cut letter by letter
through your name, I burst out crying.
I am a flood of tears; I wail and howl.
Though I haven't seen you for months,
almost years, I can't believe you are gone.
For those who saw you daily, who laughed
at your jokes and stories, who felt the warmth
and sweet smell of your skin, how merciless
the morning clouds. I haven't forgotten you.
Even after senility and death, you will be with me.
Outside, the last faded leaves cling to the uppermost
branches. I wipe my eyes and stare
into the uncertain sky. One leaf
detaches, and floats, this way and that,
lifted, then dashed by a breeze, as our hopes
were dashed, lifted and crushed after your stroke.
A momentary shaft of sun lights the last yellow
and gold leaf and together, they vanish.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

Out of Control

Out of Control

Today, my mother is scheduled to die. 
She will swallow a lethal dose of poison. 
Her begging for death, her plans and schemes,
have finally paid off.  She will join my father at last.
Before she goes, I want to race to the nursing home
to say goodbye, to say "I love you."  But the roads are snowy
and slick.  A good foot of snow, packed to ice in spots.
As I turn to the left, up a long hill, the car slides
backwards, faster and faster, slipping into the left lane.
I panic, stab wildly around with my foot, can't find the brakes.
Cars fly past on both sides.  I slide out of control,
can't even steer into my own lane.  Finally,
I find the brake, pump it enough to slow the car, and start
back up the long hill toward my mother's death.
I am afraid I'll be late.  She'll already be gone
and all my love and goodbyes will stay unspoken,
sticking in the throat of my heart like tears.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
081107-1225-1b; 081107-1st

Out of Control

Out of Control

Today, my mother is scheduled to die from a lethal dose
of poison.  Her begging for death has finally paid off.
I want to get to the nursing home before she goes
to say goodbye, to say I love you.  But the roads are snowy
and slick.  As I turn to the left, up a long hill, the car slides
backwards, faster and faster, slipping into the left lane.
I panic, stab around with my toe, can't find the brakes.
Cars fly past on both sides.  I can't even steer
into my own lane. I slide out of control.  Finally,
I find the brake, pump it enough to slow the car, and start
back up the long hill toward my mother's death.
I am afraid I'll be late; she'll already be gone
and I won't get to say goodbye.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
081107-1st




I want to say goodbye to my mother.
I am out of control.
I am sliding backwards.  Backsliding.
I am going the wrong way.
I am in the wrong place.
I can't find the brakes.
I am afraid I will be late
I am afraid I won't get to say goodbye.
I am worried about my mother's death.

Pirouettes

Pirouettes
How Geraldine Becomes a Seamstress
(Almost resembling a Ghazal)


Geraldine stares, smiles and stares, as the leaves fall
like rain, like snow, like cats and dogs, the leaves fall.

Reds and oranges, yellows and browns, purples and golds,
mustards and plums, soaring, dropping and drifting, leaves fall.

They flutter and wobble, they dance and tumble, catch
the light and hold it brightly, briefly, the falling leaves.

Under the trees, thousands of leaves. Geraldine lifts handfuls,
armfuls, tosses them high and tilts her face up to the falling leaves.

They shine like church windows, fly like maple seeds, sing
like hummingbird wings, rattle like bones, the falling leaves.

She piles up leaves and falls backwards into them,
spreads her arms and laughs. Above her, the leaves fall.

On her belly she tunnels, buries herself, swims and rolls
and comes up like an otter to a sky full of leaves, falling.

She sniffs them: they smell like dirt, like the forest, like autumn,
like the grass and the flower gardens, buried now by fallen leaves.

She strokes them: they feel like paper, like leather, like velvet,
like cloth, like sandpaper, like skin, like love, like fallen leaves.

Fragments of fabric, bright-colored bows, birthday confetti,
plucked petals of flowers, bits for collage—the fallen leaves.

She studies the veins, the patches of color, the subtle changes,
sorts them and matches them, no two alike, the fallen leaves.

She traces leaves on cloth, cuts their shapes, paints. With her mother
helping, stitches them to make a quilt. Sleeps under fallen leaves.

In the morning, leaves again. Geraldine dances. She twirls and pirouettes,
sings, laughs and murmurs merry noises in the fallen and falling leaves.



Mary Stebbins Taitt
081105-2121-2d; 081105-0011-1st
I wrote this this morning at 11 minutes after 12. I've revised it 4 times since then. It's a modified (simplified) Ghazal ("Guzzle") form. Prolly still not done.