Poem: Chestnut Ridge | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine

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Poem: Chestnut Ridge



The puppy is hanging by a leg in a bra that I am drying from a doorknob.
Cookies are smoking in the oven. A baking project begun and abandoned for painting rocks on the patio.
There is a sticky, pink substance on the piano keys.
Pumpkins multiply in the flowerbeds around the house. Ropy green vines, dinner plate leaves and yellow blossoms blanket purple cone flowers and peonies. I am unsure which industrious child found the seeds last spring. The terrier has raided a laundry basket.
Random socks color my lawn. Our Blue Market Parakeet swoops from the roof of his cage on a circular reconnaissance mission from kitchen to laundry room...living room...dining room and settles back on a windowsill in the kitchen. He stretches a single blue wing wide, shoves his head in his avian armpit and preens some feathers. Proud with his beauty he screams at the dogs. They dutifully trot over only to have their noses bitten. The baby has busied herself with a box of sanitary pads. Thinking she has discovered a hidden trove of stickers, she has stuck them artfully on the wall in the hallway. And I? I am happy in all this mayhem for it goes too fast. One day I will be sitting with a cup of coffee in my spotlessly clean house. My dogs will be old with grey muzzles, too lame to chase children with frisbees and

I will write a poem about when we were all so young.

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