Time

Time

Time reaches out to touch my face

With its long grasping fingers

Leaving creases where there once were none

Time leaves proof of its passage

Beating every second on its inexpugnable drum.

The Sage

And yet, here I was once again thinking about the Sage's words.

"Neglect lies for years within those that haunt themselves."

Who was he talking about I wondered.

The Hill

“Dorothy! Are you okay?” My brother yelled from the top of the hill. “I’m going to get Grandma.”

I tried to stop him, but he was already gone. What would Grandma say? Hadn't she told us not to go? The first time I'd fallen from my bike, I was five years old. The neighbor’s son had swept me into his arms and carried me home that day. Three stitches in the eyebrow, two in the chin, and one in the lip. Now, once again, I found myself five years later, buried beneath my broken bicycle at the bottom of the hill.

“Let’s go to the field to watch the ladies pick strawberries,” my brother had whispered.

We didn't ask Grandma because we knew she'd never agree. “I don't want you going through the orchard getting your clothes dirty.” No matter how many times we asked her, she always said no. So, my brother and I stopped asking and started sneaking up there instead.

Creeping through the apricot orchard, we would spy on the ladies in their bright yellow wide-rimmed hats. Beneath the beating sun, they stooped, throwing strawberries into the fronts of their long flowing skirts and then, once having picked enough would rise, turn to their sides, and gently pour the strawberries into baskets. Occasionally, they stopped, wiped the sweat from their brows, put their hands on their hips and slowly stretched backwards. From the side of the fields, someone yelled something in Spanish, and they swiftly got back to work.

As we watched the ladies, my brother and I ate the apricots we had picked from the trees along the way. After an hour or two we grew tired of watching them.

My brother turned to leave, “I told Curtis I would meet him at the hill.”

“But you promised Grandma you wouldn't go to the hill.”

“I told Grandma I wouldn't get dirty.”

“No, you promised you wouldn't go to the hill anymore.”

Defiantly, he shrugged his shoulders and rode away. “You don’t have to come with me,” he yelled back, “why don’t you just go home and play with your dolls?”

Grabbing my bike, I quickly rode after him. Curtis stood at the edge of the hill waiting for my brother. “Shall we go to the old hut, Duane?” Curtis asked.

“Let’s go!” My brother shouted. They shoved off in a jump and rode carelessly down the hill.

Too afraid to ride down, I yelled after them., “You and your dumb hut!” Instead, I rode my bike on the trails on top of the hill—the little ruts of different sizes 
that had been made by bicycles ridden in mud that had later dried.

After a while, I stopped at the top of the hill to try and find the two of them, but I couldn’t see anything through the thick forest of trees at the bottom. Peering through the trees, I tried to find the hut, but no matter how hard I looked it consistently eluded my view. "Stupid boys!" I exasperated and rode around the trails a few more times before returning to the edge of the hill again.

The hut, my brother had told me, was an old pile of broken beams and broken windows and a door partially off its hinges hidden from view by a grove of cherry trees at the bottom of the hill. Rumor had it that the hut was older than Cupertino itself. An old guy was supposed to have lived there, but no one had ever seen him. I wanted to see the hut too, but I had always been too afraid to ride down the hill.

My brother and Curtis came walking their bikes up the hill bragging about how great the day had been. They had ridden all around the trees and gone into the old hut. "Let's go down again," my brother told Curtis.

Curtis agreed and they got their bikes ready for,the little pop off the hill. “Why don’t you go down, Dorothy?” Curtis asked.

“I don’t need to go down the hill,” I answered, “it’s boring.”

“You’re just a chicken,” he taunted, “chicken!”

“I’m not a chicken,” I said, trying not to look afraid. “I just think it's stupid.”

“Chicken!” He repeated.

“Just leave her alone, Curtis,” my brother said, “we don’t want any dumb girl following us.”

“You’re right,” Curtis taunted, “girls can’t do it anyway.”

“You don’t think a girl could go down that hill?”

He shrugged, “girls can’t do stuff like that. They just know how to play house and play with dolls.”

“Yeah,and pretend that they’re married,” my brother laughed and jumped on his bike following Curtis down the hill.

I rode my bike over the edge of the hill and started down. The trail was full of rocks and holes. The wind whipped my hair in my face. Down and down I went, faster and faster. My bike frame rattled as I rode over rocks and small holes.

Unable to stop, the front tire of the bike rattled as the nut slid off the bolt and fell away. To and fro, I bounced, up and down until I finally hit a rock that sent my front tire flying. Down I went. Bicycle, girl, bicycle. The tire stopped rolling a few feet from where it had fallen off. Girl, bicycle. In slow motion, I fell finally reaching the bottom with a “thud.” My broken bicycle on top of me.

Duane and Curtis had heard the crash and come running out of the trees.

“Told you girls can’t ride,” Curtis said.

“My tire fell off.”

“Where’s your tire?” Duane asked.

“Up there,” I said, pointing to the top of the hill.

Duane started up the hill to retrieve my tire. I tried to get up. My right shoulder and side throbbed with pain.

“Can you move?” My brother asked.

“I can’t get the bike off of me.” I tried to push the bike off but my leg was tangled in the back tire.

"You're bleeding!" Curtis yelled. I looked down. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood. All the skin had been scraped off my shoulder. It wouldn't stop bleeding. My brother ran to get Grandma.

On the way to the doctor’s office, Grandma asked, "why did you go down the hill?"

"To see the old man's hut in the orchard," I told her sobbing quietly into her shoulder.

My grandmother gave my brother a sharp glance. Now we were both in trouble. No TV after dinner and probably restriction for a week.

His face flushed. "There is no hut," my brother mumbled to his shoes.

Grandma shook her head and sighed. "Only fools follow fools."

Mr. Mouth

Mr. Mouth

He’s never silent

He’s never still

And from his lips all secrets spill

He's never violent

He's never shrill

In words eclipsed his murmurs kill

He’s Mr. Mouth

He hears for miles

He’s Mr. Mouth

His brain compiles

All information

He figures out

All rumors sprout from Mr. Mouth.

He’s never quiet

He never lies

He’s never good as an alibi.

A hidden spigot

His rumors fly

He's never going to apologize

He's Mr. Mouth

He listens at doors

He's Mr. Mouth

The gossips adore

misinformation

he also spouts

All rumors erupt from Mr. Mouth

A Respectful Bow

A Respectful Bow

Treetops glisten through the whispering tears of clouds long forgotten
 Dewdrops flail upon the ground beneath the trees
The earth weeps for the passing of an old train.