Old lawn chairs at the lake
Circa 1946, after the war
Steel
Heavy, very heavy
Yet very comfortable
A reminder of my parents
Those chairs, their chairs
Brought to this cabin
For their 50s
Summer home
During the walk from the lakeshore
The long uphill walk
Midway from the lake to the cabin
Those chairs
A welcome respite
Sometimes I imagine
Mom and Dad
Sitting in those chairs
At night, overlooking the lake
Bathed in starlight
Their ashes are nearby
We’ve been going there since the late 60s
Red plush seats
Ivory-colored walls
Ornate with sculpted shapes
Patterns
Faces and vases
Gold-leaf highlights
As the hour approaches
Far below
On the stage
Instrumentalists
Move into sections
Concert Master appears
An A is sounded
Tuning begins
Then silence
Audience awaits
Tuxedoed conductor emerges
Taking the podium
Cues the orchestra
Magic and wonder fill the room
I often feel
On those evenings
Nothing else exists
Hurtling through the universe
Alone in this space
Unique in its own timelessness
Creations of those long departed
Made present
©2019 Thomas W. Cummins
With the early morning fog
All was white-gray
Seeing nothing for more than 100 yards
Islands were not to be seen
Nor the far shore
Silence
Well, not quite
Soft, gentle movement heard
Water caressing the rock-strewn
Beach
I was thinking, for me,
This is a new experience
And certainly so
On this day, in this place
At this age
Who I am today is new
What I experience today is new
All I see and all I hear, new
The me of now
Has never existed before
I’ve never been this me before
I should be in awe of everything
Tired of nothing
Open to the grace
Of all things
©2018 Thomas W. Cummins
Going through boxes and boxes of stuff in preparation for downsizing during the next decade, or so.
I was quite young when I wrote this. Perhaps it was 55 years ago. Nevertheless, here it is
Tuft by tuft
Pulled by the cold night air
Like feathers, heat leaves our bedroom
On this winter’s night
Reaching down
A second blanket is found
Pulled up around the neck
Warmth enfolds, sleep returns
© 2017 Thomas W. Cummins
—∞—
If only words could let me share
But what can they do?
Re-imagining a morning walk
On an hilly dirt road
Through the woods
Past driveways leading down to the lake
To hidden cabins
Early morning rising sun
Leaves bursting with color
Light flirting with shadows among the trees
Aspens shimmering in an unnoticed breeze
It was very cool, if not cold
Hands taking turns
Between pocket and hiking stick
A deer’s follow-me white flag
Bounding, bounding, bounding … gone
At the bottom of a hill
A pair of ducks exploding from a small pond
Little flocks of tiny birds
Gathering something for breakfast
Amidst the weeds and lingering wildflowers
Unnoticed before
The breeze has picked up
And plays with the holes in my walking stick
A horrible flute
Producing a tone that is simply beautiful
Appearing then vanishing
With the rhythm of my gait
An hour later
Back at the cabin
Warm
Invigorated
Sitting by the window
Steaming cup of coffee
Sparking lake beyond the sheltering glass
© 2015 Thomas W. Cummins
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