Memories from Walking to a Workshop

Yellow siding, not plain yellow or primary yellow, 

but a yellow the color of Stella d'Oro lilies

as they're about to open.

Domesticated roses, looking for all the world

as if they were meant to grow wild, 

being hosed down by a man with rheumy eyes and crepey hands,

the sound of water being forced from a nozzle 

competing as I try to tell him how much I enjoy his garden.

A hallway with sunshine pooling on wooden floors

grown mellow from the polishing of thousands of feet. 

Nine over nines and twelve over twelves, 

single panes of glass that barely block

the winds of winter, when the Atlantic 

calls the fishermen home.


A sunny courtyard that looks inviting
but the door locks behind you, 
so you find a gate and 
walk around to the front of the building
and go in again,
without admitting you ignored the sign
that said the patio was closed. 

Paintings hanging one by one, five in all, 

over a table, words and images married there. 

Famous quotations; words from sacred texts. 

A place that feels holy, so different from 

the sterile building across the street, 

the one that thrusts up 

like a clenched fist against the sky.