The baby screams in the house full
of leftover turkey & stuffing, fries and pies
potatoes mashed by another shrieker & his dad.
Sleep settles into all the warm beds but mine.
Awake as windows rattle
I pen a poem. Stillness embraces
all the others downstairs. Our dogs mumble
in sleep, paws tapping.
I imagine owls clutching furious
dancing branches outside,
snuggling the tree trunks while
I’m cozy in my bed, mute as a mouse.
The neon spirits of the departed
visit me as I remember full
houses of Thanksgivings long past,
preserved in dusty attic photos.
I listen & wait for the rain to stop,
hope the precipice perched over us
holds steady under howling gusts.
I imagine hot coffee in the quiet morning.
I’m hankering for tomorrow’s aromas,
leftovers-for-breakfast with pie,
stuffing & maybe an egg thrown in,
cracked and scrambled in the pan.
Tomorrow another drenched day,
with games & cranberry nibbles,
veggie loaf with pudding, still until
the kids’ next crescendo of tears.
By Laura C. Lippman
Laura and her husband live on Vashon part time. They love to walk the beaches and parks, birding, invasive weed eradicating and tidepooling. With her writing group, Laura recently published “Writing While Masked, Reflections on 2020 and Beyond,” published by WSU press.
