time, time, time, keeps on slippin' - into the future

do you remember that song...

well I'm in the present
here in my West B Cafe
last night
Marc's piano sat in the north corner
too close to the window
his mothers photo
she holding tito (sp?)
from her bed, tito hiding under the covers
I love this woman's spirit
she is gone but not from here
her piano is glorious a grand in facto
maybe rosewood, intricately
delicately carved, etched with flowers like
her etchings, paintings and art work that
grace the dusty walls
soon to be painted
Brother Dean you would do anything to have
Marc's equipment and instruments
I want to get drum lessons from Marc
they are not in my budget yet
maybe a swap for gardening or
I will coach him in photography
but he's good anyway
I covet that digital
oh I covet it
his father looks out from beyond
man of steel and velvet
like father like son
the sycamore tree in the back yard
is soft and silver in the moonlight
the magnolia in the front waxes
the moon into your face
with those large
glossy leaves
the back porch is divided
the left was a greenhouse
but Marc uses it for laundry
the right stairs go down
we joke, that this is the place to be
when the big one hits
second floor
below the hill
above the water
the stairs they do go down
into the crying for more
backyard, perfect to
start afresh, anew
no one's planted
that means
open and receiving
the house, shingled tastefully
underneath is the
sweetest thin wood siding
inside the woodwork
layered in what appears
as eons of paint
maybe 60-70 years worth
under the rainbow of colors
it's redwood, makes sense eh?
so many... many... many other things to share
time time time keeps on slipping...
Phil's coming for breakfast
Oren's here for lunch
I's must be paintin' the hall this afternoon
must finish the kitchen cabinets
must get the vegetables for T day
I won't be blogging for a few days
thank you for your love each and every one
thank you for the food we eat, thank you for the birds that sing
thank you god for everything
Happy Thanksgiving
I love you too, Debs