In a Café

In a café
secluded and warm
time curls slowly
like smoke circles
and dances in the amber rays
of Tiffany lamps
lit mystically low
while sounds dim to a murmur
inviting faces at the window.

Outside beneath the frosted streetlamps
snowflakes hang in lonely sheets
and scurry from the fierce white light
while traffic roars and people rush
to get to where ever
they don’t want to go.

In a café
in the space before a painting
muffled voices chattering dishes
conversations I half hear
but the aromatics of this place:
coffee beans freshly ground
newsprint danishes perfume
and the after sense of you—
these stay with me.

Java Romance by Heather Grace Stewart

On being wired differently

“Our home will be the only super-wired
house on our block!”
you grin at me amid a mess of wires
that fall two stories from our new master bedroom,
branching out like octopus arms to a spot
below the basement stairs.

I think you’ve gone mad.

It’s nearly midnight as I hold a flashlight
up for you to find the missing link.
We haven’t eaten, but you’re being fed
by some crazy kind of adrenaline—
and I, by the passion in your eyes,
as you realize your brilliant scheme
plotted back in March when this house
was just concrete and mud.

It’s nearly one a.m. now;
we flutter about the house
like moths in the moonlight;
You, humming as you wire us for life,
and I, listening to the crickets,
content in the darkness,
in this space that will be our jungle;

In this place you and I have marked
and called home.

Wired by Heather Grace Stewart

Instinct

Golden sunshine shimmers
on this lazy lake
like sequins. A lone cormorant
flaps its wings incessantly,
as if in defiance
of the coming cold.
Oblivious couples walk
arm in arm beneath
the weeping willows,
kicking up dead leaves like
forgotten arguments.
They sport only t-shirts—
the joggers, shorts—
as if wearing them
will impede the inevitable:
snow, sleet, heavy traffic,
Christmas crowds,
cell-phones ringing
in the middle of a movie.

The cormorant spreads his wings
and praises the sun;
preening on his rightful throne,
unaware that winter is late this year—
going by instinct because
that is all he knows.

light moments

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

You must have worn blue;
maybe an overcoat
as we rushed into the rain.

We drank coffee,
talked about writing;
the state of the world.

Did you make an
awkward joke?
Take my hand?
Say my name?

We measure national debt,
average rainfall, yearly income,
overall satisfaction with everything
from online banking to
mail order brides.

We mark height and holidays,
historic moments, essays, exams,
final resting places—
then celebrate or mourn them
with cheesy greeting cards.

We don’t mark
light moments
like we mark the dead.

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

Honey-Do List

I’ve been meaning to tell you.
There was this guy, Mike—
I think that was his name—
on TV today.

Mike can kick himself in the head
over and over and over,
twenty-five times in one minute.

It gave me this idea.
A time-saving technique.
When we’re fighting about
nothing and everything all at once;
When you’ve just said it’s only PMS,
and I’m glaring at you with that
“You’re so not getting laid tonight!” look;
When you’re throwing your
hands up in the air, yelling,
“What do you want from me?”

Give Mike a call.
Learn how to do that.

Promise

Today the lilacs opened;
and I almost missed it.

My spring tradition since childhood:
reaching up on my tippy toes,
plucking down a fresh bloom;
closing my eyes, memorizing that scent,
taking out the inner core, sucking
on the sweet nectar.

And I almost missed it.
I was distracted; glued to my computer screen,
stuck on my cell phone, head in the dirty laundry;
Caught up in things that just won’t matter
100 years from now.

Then you came home,
scooped up our busy
one-year-old, took us to a little lilac tree
you’d planted in our barren backyard.

The scent was so familiar, a reminder
strong and insistent like your
stubborn side,
damp petals poignant
grazing against my face.

So for a moment it was just the three of us,
carefree and content;
Surrounded by that powerful scent
and the promise of renewal:
The promise of purple.

'Promise' by Heather Grace Stewart

Valley

for Larry and Robin

Your pillow has a valley;
that soft place
where your head would rest.

This first night without you,
I’m lost in the valley.
I never want to climb out.

I breathe in your scent,
memorize every note;
pretend you’re still beside me.
My delusions are quickly
interrupted by an incessant
buzzing:  I’ve left my
cell phone on vibrate.

The minutiae of life
must go on; I must go on.
Somehow, I’ll make up
your side of bed.
Someday, your pillow
will lose its soft scent;
your clothes will be gone;
all traces of you
will have faded from view.

But you were my valley;
you were that soft place
where my head would rest;

Love like that
is a flower
that never fades.

Nine Lives

She’s been married
nine times, she says
as she crosses her legs
and smiles at the
talk show shrink.

“I can always spot
husband material!”
she laughs, then
confesses that
“after number five,”
she started to
question her
abilities.

Maybe next time
she should
just get
a cat.

In the early morning hush

When we awake
in the early morning hush
my body curved into yours

I can hear you breathe
as the shadows, light and wind
chase each other from behind
our sheer white curtains

You see me stirring
but just lie there
tangled with me in the sheets
eyes locked in an embrace as
the sun slowly greets our naked skin

Before the alarm clock rings.
Before the school bus
comes round the corner.
Before the damned garbage truck backs
up with its annoying beep beep beep—

My body curves into yours
just so
and we forget the world.

'Early Morning Hush' by Heather Grace Stewart

On Death and Dandelions

The dandelions are beautiful this time of year.

Yes, I just wrote an ode to a weed.

Maybe you find that odd, but today I’m finding everything that I can see, smell, taste and touch absolutely beautiful, because today, I am mourning the sudden loss of a friend.

I didn’t know him very long – in fact, I’ve never met him – he was an online friend. But that doesn’t matter. He brought laughter and a new perspective into my life. He made me see things in a way I hadn’t seen them before – ironic, considering he was nearly 100 percent legally blind.

This afternoon, I went for a walk as thoughts of my friend filled my heart and mind. He no longer walks on this earth, but somehow, I saw, smelled, heard and felt things in a whole new way. His way.

It was as if I had been blind to the world’s beauty, and was seeing it for the first time. My senses were in overdrive.

The lilacs glowed a brilliant purple against the bright blue, cloudless sky.

The honeysuckle smelled so much sweeter than last year.

My lemonade tasted like that freshly squeezed glass you buy for a nickel from the happy little kid down the street, and it refreshed me like it was the hottest day of the summer.

The wind roared like the ocean as it rushed through the oak trees in our yard.

The sun felt soft and warm on my face.

My friend was still here May 23rd to sense the world’s incredible beauty – to smell the honeysuckle and feel the sun warming his face. Now he is gone.

He’s gone, but I’m alive, and I’m thinking: Why do so many of us wait so long to live our lives? Why do we make the mistake of thinking this is a dress rehearsal?

It’s not. This is it. This is all we’ve got.

And the dandelions, oh, they are so beautiful this time of year.

Copyright 2008, by Heather Grace Stewart
If you liked this, check out Heather’s poetry collection,

Where the Butterflies Go
http://www.lulu.com/content/1506907