Cold Comfort

Golden mucus narrows

oxygen passages

and back muscles are sore

from breathing anyway.

Grandmother’s voice rises

from unsorted data

Feed colds and starve fevers

so I drift to the frig.

Yogurt with honey or

jam and nuts and dried fruit?

Why are my cupboards full

when least tempted to eat?

Grandmother’s voice recalls

hot toddies, her country

cure-all, steeped herbal teas

and Echinacea.

I wish she would let me

be when I ache and ring

unless she could bring her

remedies from beyond.

Serve me, I whimper.  As

if!  She gave me gems when

she needed care; but now? 

She will not stay away.

Pillowed on her wisdom,

I drift to sleep and snore

and dream she is alive
and right here by my side.  

Posted at Poets United Pantry #179.

Copyright © 2013  S.L.Chast

Bells and Whistles

for Abigail 

                                                          

Grandpa made the sled for her carpet rides.

She drives wearing a crown and we all take 

turns being steeds: first Dad and then great grand

father—four generations—and the one-

year old holds the reigns.   When she stops, arms out-

stretched, we applaud.  She moves again and stops.

Applause.  What power!   She is entranced and
so are we.  Will she be director, conductor, 

dancer, musician, lawyer?  We can’t help 

speculating.  Great grandma reminds us 

she is a normal baby, for which we 

are grateful.  We stop saying how smart she 

is and how we would all give our lives for 

her who has all these bells and whistles.

Posted in Poets United Poetry Pantry #178.

Copyright © 2013  S.L.Chast