Reading Leaves

Out of the blue—nowhere—
or somewhere I can’t go
you give me the look,
the teacherly stare
that once fixed
my sophomoric soul.
Taken aback, I wonder
where this places you.

In my early poems,
you read my soul; now
you stare and ask, “Do you
ever feel like you have only
half a book?”  “Sometimes,”
I say.  Like now, I think.

“It’s become my life.”
Coming out of confusion
for heartbreaking brief
moments, you meet
sadness and speak truth.

Ah, dear friend, half a book!
I want to restore page after
sacred page.  Instead,
I must wait with you,
watching bits of memory
and meaning appear,
then fade.

Whethering the Seasons

A day stolen from summer,
that’s how Aunt Katie called it—
this surprisingly sort of warm
November day. Whether stolen
or gifted, there was nothing to do
but scavenge the hula hoop, any
jacks and leftover bubble juice
that maternal practicality
had failed to squirrel away.

                “Out of season, no reason
to keep at the ready.”

But on this gift of day,
reason held no sway.

Decades later, the hot March air
wraps round me like errant lover.
I ease into the sun’s embrace,
my body yielding to the light rays’ play.

For a moment I wonder:
Is this day fluke and gift
or weather’s warning?

I memory-check last spring,
but with COVID’s March on
and lockdown, spring missed me.

My seasoned self
stretches open
to the day’s unexpected grace.

My bones ease;
my spirit lifts.

Sister Fran McManus, RSM, teaches literature and poetry writing in St Francis of Assisi Church, NYC. Her poems have appeared in various publications, including Presence and English Journal. A former adjunct instructor at John Jay College, Fran has written prose devotionals for St. Anthony’s Guild and several plays, including “Hunting Crows”, published in Catholic University of America’s anthology of short plays,  Sacred Circles.