Francis Masat

One Way

People stroll in through the exit,
though an old sign warns you not to.
Down a graveled lane, people walk,

waving at friends and family,
recollecting that this is the place
the band plays on Memorial Day.

They finally stop to wait,
enjoying sunlight, fragrant breezes,
the freedom to sigh, to come and go.

Wind sighs through long-needled pines
as cedars, flowers and fresh mown grass
revive scents and scenes from memory.

More than one person, though,
glances back to the exit and its old sign
as the creeping hearse arrives.

Honey Dippin'

Pearl-pink sky holds cold gray
against the earth - icy air creeps
up your sleeves - down your neck.
Crunchy frozen-under-foot dawn.
Time for honey dippin' --
time for ancient recycling tasks,

ritual of each winter Saturday morn.
A pitchfork is my rod and staff
as I rake and scoop and pitch
till the spreader runs over with "honey."
The ol' man tows it - out to the fields,
a starting-over in the cycle of it all.

The air thickens with the smell of sweat,
fermented grain, wet straw, and methane;
near pleasant when mixed with icy drafts.
There is little talk in the growing light -
no need. Loads later, stalls re-hayed,
I let the milkers in from the cold.

They've no idea how they'll recycle -
when they give no more. Milking,
I press closed-eyed on a warm hide.
The barn cats appear, begin to lick
squirts of hot raw milk out of the air -
and off their closed-eyed faces.

As the cow feeds in her stanchion,
blood-hot steam rises from my pail,
a creamy fragrance flows into memory.
Three years hence, the cow's bull
will crush the ol' man's ribs -
maybe for all the "2x4” love he gave.

Tropical Storm

pitch-black sky
over empty streets - no lights on
tourists leaving

a howling dog
rushes down the street –
I stay behind my fence

piles of seaweed
spilling
across the road

pipers and sanderlings dive
around a dune
into the mangroves

a puff of wind
lifts a hibiscus blossom
from her hair

hurricane-gray clouds
a novel
on an old chair

windowsill
our cat sleeping in
the sound of wind

Change of Mind

Brilliant flashes – light erupts, pulsing.
Why does looking inside hurt so?
Reliving days, dazed, hazy gold,
green years of churning,
burning hot, memory red, thoughts
expand, repetition on repetition.
Me, it, they, won't, doesn't, can't,
love, work, loss, won, failed, joy.
Images distort in their searing brevity,
everything flows together, smashing,
separating into glimpses of the past.
I taste a life that is indescribable, inebriating.
When was it? What was it really like?
A thought holds, delicate; a slight sound -
a movement shatters it, a rock to glass.
Sunlight steals across the floor onto the wall.
It reaches for me as my thoughts overflow
breaking my grasp on a gleaming shard
that is about to surface like a fin cutting
through the skin of a settling pond.
A mind that was my shelter
is now becoming my weakness.