This giant plumeria plant
has conquered my living room.
In a space too small for its sprawl,
one leaf curls against a window.

It belongs out of doors, not in.
It stretches and fills the corner.
Its three-pronged stalks grow out, not up,
narrow trunks clad in smooth bark.

This giant plumeria plant
is impractical and impossible.
It stares at me, it’s daring me.
I have not answered its challenge.

I allow it to hold its court,
towering in condescension.
The meeker houseplants bow in awe,
the large ones seem somehow threatened.

A fanfare of leaves explodes
from the end of each stubby branch.
It feels like a jungle in here
when sitting tucked underneath it.

It has inches on me, high and wide.
I am dwarfed inside my own home.
My dignity falters in the face
of this monstrous potted plant.

This giant plumeria plant
should not get under my skin.
I should not resent its bulk,
for I wish not for more of my own.

It is awkward and it is unwieldy,
nonconforming and big for its britches.
It roadblocks a chunk of my house,
blocking my view out the window.

I think I have made it quite clear
my position on potted Goliaths,
but I fear I’ve surrendered my rights,
for here I am, granting it quarters.

A reluctant truce has been reached —
as long as it minds its own business,
I shall not take up arms against
this enormous plumeria plant.


A late October fog

This morning I was up before the sun, and I could see the faint tinge of light in the sky that comes before dawn. It was enough to show the thick fog that was draped all across my neighborhood, giving me smoky views of nearby houses and trees.

I began writing early today, earlier than usual, and I felt very alive and awake. I wanted to be out in that fog, to look into the distance and see the shroud-covered foliage along the river.

I ate my breakfast and waited until it was fully light, and then I went for a walk.

I’ve noticed that the earlier I venture out, the happier the people are who I meet along the way. I exchanged many friendly “good  mornings” with fellow walkers. I’m sure there’s some connection to be made there.

Along the river, looking downstream, the fog muted the colors of autumn. The air was heavy with dampness.

As I passed beneath trees, heavy moisture, not rain, dripped off the branches onto leaves piled by the wind up against a fence.

At the end of each twig, a quivering, minuscule droplet was clinging. They sipped at the trickles coming to each tip, and collected more wetness from the air. When reaching their fullness, they would release and fall.

cross spikes



Here’s a little something lighthearted in the spirit of the season.


Hot apple cider,

so perfectly fall,

with a bite like a lemon

smoothed over with sweet.


Cinnamon spice

fragrance drifts to my nose,

brings heat to my mouth,

travels all the way down.


It is sharp in my throat

but soft on my tongue,

and it eases the chill

of hands wrapped ‘round the mug.


Pumpkin this, pumpkin that,

they’re all very swell,

but my heart’s in the apple;

I’m a New England gal.


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