The Button Jar

Posted on by Janet N. Gold

What is a button worth?

This one. . .  

has closed the front of a linen shirt

white as a newly washed cloud

and this one held together the cuff

on a thin wrist. . .

I linger over the colorful array

with a tender memory of

watching her thread a needle,

by her side a sewing basket

woven of reed and willow.

She wasn’t too busy that day,

had the time to sew on a button,

took the time to play.

We emptied the button jar

and spread the circles blue

and brown, black, red, green even

on the kitchen table

the simple white ones here

the fancy red spheres there

a pair of pearly ovals

a hard-working brown one

saved from an oil-stained shirt.

Every button had once been important.

Every button now waited,

wanting to be needed again,

ready to hold together the two halves

of an open collar or

to close tight the child’s winter coat,

dreaming in its own circular way

of being back in someone’s story.

Oriole

Posted on by Janet N. Gold 





   





           Oriole





A morning cool and blue





and the oriole orange





and black-winged





sings unseen beside the stream.





The child in the hand-me-down spring coat





holds fast the precious coin in her pocket





and decides:





there is a small book





on the shelf





behind the cash register





at the five-and-dime





a glossy book of birds.





She will learn their names





answer their calls





there is no plan yet





no other road than the one





she walks every day to school.





She doesn’t know that morning





that songbirds migrate





that every spring a new nest





must be built





days have not yet become weeks





nor months become years.





She sees its orange and black feathers





moving among the roadside branches





so real are the colors





she can’t wait to tell someone.







			


	



			
				



	
	

		
Simplicity Pattern

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		






            





In the days when mothers sewed their daughters’ clothes,





a woman still lovely, weary now





but willing still to dream





of pretty party frocks and patent leather pumps,





sends her girls to bed.





It is late April,





when gold-flecked forsythia and tender-lipped forest violets





dress the spring earth.





As the sisters sleep, she lays out on the kitchen table





the Simplicity pattern’s tissue promise of carefully stitched shirtwaists.





Her hands hold the pinking shears





and with each cut a third-grader’s surprise





becomes delight as she tries on





the white-and-yellow checked dress,





full-skirted, matching belt,





rickrack at the neck and trim for the cap sleeves.





The older sister steps into the violet dress,





fashioned as a fifth-grader’s princess raiment





and down the road they walk,





almost too elated to notice





the fast-flowing brook tumbling over rocks,





the robins and finches whistling to them





as Newfield Road merges with Main Street





and they see the red brick school





and the children on the playground





and the yellow and purple of their full skirts





swirl with the fresh new air of May.





Did we tell her we cherished her hands





that cut and fit and stitched the colors of spring;





her pride, that sent us off in new dresses





to dance around the Maypole;





her gifts, more than I can count





or even remember?





It was in the days when love was spoken





in the tissue rustle of a Simplicity pattern,





in the careful choice of purple cotton and yellow and white checks,





the unnecessary expense of rickrack to make the dress special,





the matching fabric-covered belt to cinch the small waists





and add an extra flare





to the dancing skirts of the daughters’ new dresses.


			


	



			
				



	
	

		
A  Father Takes His Daughter Fishing

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		















Only once,





but it was enough.





He rowed out onto the blue-gray lake.





It was good to push off from the dock.





His arms were strong





that Saturday morning





but tired from the night shift





at the mill.





He rowed to the spot





where the fish were biting.





She sat in the bow





and told him stories.





Because he was listening,





she unraveled Anne of Green Gables





from the knotted skeins of her heart





and stretched out the swashbuckling





sword-brandishing of The Three Musketeers,





filling the small boat





till there was hardly room for the fish





that weren’t biting after all.





He listened to this daughter





and wondered where the fish had gone.





The sun is too high in the sky, he thought,





the fish are resting in the cool water





at the bottom of the lake.





You have quite an imagination, he said.





I worry about her, he was thinking.





How will she ever learn to catch a fish?





. . . just as she hooked a trout





and jerked the pole





and the obliging fish





flew through the summer air





and flopped at their feet in the skiff.





And she never forgot





that he smiled,





held the slippery prize,





gently drew the hook from its lip





. . . and threw it back in the water.





So small, he told her.





We should let it live.


			


	



			
				



	
	

		
Recycle the Moon

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		










Recycle the Moon
(Full moon, December 19, 2021)

Wrap your arms around her belly 
and (on the Solstice, December 21)
when she rolls through 
your bedroom window 
and lingers, hovering over your dreams,
cushion your head on her soft pillow chest,
watch her wistfully as her smooth, 
round back glides horizon-bound.
You wish you could go with her, 
but she has work to do:
Each night she sheds a layer (December 22)
Delivers a package (December 24)
Gives away a slice of light (December 26)
Sweeps the star-spangled sky (Dec. 28)
Dances till dawn (December 31)
until, unburdened of her own bounty 
she goes home, closes the door 
(New Moon, January 2)
and—well this is her secret—
Is she sleeping, baking lemon pie, 
composing a symphony, writing a poem?
You are curious to know: 
Does the moon, like you, want to be new?
Inside her sky-bowl she ponders and stirs, 
adds lunar alchemy until she’s ready, 
then opens the door just enough (January 4) 
so a sliver of silver slides through,
coy as the petal of an evening primrose.
And you hear the young moon’s 
saucy talk and flirty laughing
and you watch her belly growing 
big and bawdy and round (January 12)
and you wrap your arms around her 
and she’s the same old moon 
you knew before,
recycling her light, 
renewing her promise to return.
(Full moon January 17, 2022)



			


	



			
				



	
	

		
The Small Plums

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		

The small plums





on arching limbs





clutch the branch





from which they grow





plump and purple.





Far too many, I admonish the tree,





you astonish with your superfluity.





But then, what do I know?





I only hover nearby,





circling the throne of your high summer glory.





Too crowded with the weight of survival,





some plums let go their hold





still green.





Some grow fatter every day,





more purple, sweet and round.





The greedy gardener,





thinking they are hers,





worries they will rot





for want of human hands





to pluck them from their bough





until, standing at the early morning window





she finally sees:





three birds pecking at plums





as a squirrel whisks along laden limbs.





Fruit falls and





dewy skin breaks open





for any fly or sparrow,





worm or beetle,





mouse or perhaps





for no one





but the fat-bellied glory of August.







			


	



			
				



	
	
			

	
	

		
Come Sit Beside Me

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		
Come,


sit beside me


on this dark step


and wait with me


for the moon to rise.


Listen with me


to the silver words


as the moon cushions


the blue darkness.


Our hands join.


Our shoulders touch.


The blood alive


beneath our skin.


The warm night air


flowing in and out


of our lungs.


Do we hear the same music?


Do we see the same living shapes


in the constellations?


I put aside this idle curiosity


and bask in the rhythm


of our simple, silent


heartbeat.


			


	



			
				



	
	
			

	
	

		
Mullein in the Time of Pneumonia

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		
A tightness prompts


a constricting


that pulls a string


that moves in a creeping current


up to my throat


but the air tickles and


try though I might


I cannot suppress the cough


that barks into the night.


I slip out of bed


to sit alone in the chair


beside the sky-dark window.


It is then I hear in my lungs


the murmur of living Mullein,


even though her stalwart stalk,


budded in summer with buttery blossoms


stands dry and brown


in winter’s garden.


Stay with me, Verbascum thapsus,


for I am lonely with fever


and fear edges my breath.


Blanket my chest


with the soothing sage-gray


of your lush and velvety leaves.


We can be allies, I proffer:


help me heal


and you will always be welcome


wherever you set your roots,


be it in the lawn


the lettuce bed


under the apple tree or


among the pumpkins in their patch.


I never doubted her promise


or questioned her advice


and now, old friends,


with every spring


and grateful lungs


I watch for her return.


			


	



			
				



	
	
			

	
	

		
Each in Its Season

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		
Each in Its Season


 


It is barely April


and the much maligned dandelion


is among the first arrivals.


She comes hurling herself at our lawns uninvited.


Is that why she is unwelcome?


Radiant little being!


Look at her glowing cheeks


and love her for her steadfast devotion.


 


Meanwhile, we watch impatiently


for our garden darlings:


the tender tulips of May


the pomp and peonies of June


the irises so independent


lilies lithe and lovely in July’s heat.


 


Following these divas


the umbels of elders flower


like points of sweet cream dappled in a basket


and the heady scent of valerian


soothes our sleep through open windows.


 


Soon Queen Anne’s lace


fringes every field and meadow


and ornamental jewelweed


sways tall and taller, pink and laughing


at the stalwart efforts and dense yellow of goldenrod.


 


And then the asters of August,


appearing right on time,


first as questions,


later as purple answers.


 


Each in its season.


Each with its reason.


Why here,


why now?


Choosing to live


is all.


			


	



			
				



	
	
			

	
	

		
Sea Lavender

				

			Posted on  by Janet N. Gold		

			


	

		
Limonium carolinianum         


 Her territory:


the essence of temporary,


the uncertain, beaten, worn


and ever-moving, ever-changing breath


where sea and moon


exchange their greetings.


 


She thrives,


indeed can only survive


among shore rocks and marsh grasses,


her roots anchored


in soft and spongey sea mud.


The air she breathes is cold and salty.


Her taut, thin stems,


wrapped in seaweed


and the papery remains of crabs,


branch into spikey statements


of tiny blue-gray flowers,


sprays of pale delicacy


that hint at her tough tenderness.


 


She’s weathered a lot of storms,


has many tales to tell.


But she saves them.


And when all the other flowers


are dead or dormant


and it’s winter


and we look for warmth and stories,


there she is,


reminding us


that the tide advances


and the tide recedes,


so send your roots down deep


and hold your head up high.