Yellow is…

Yellow is the cat that rolls in the dusted driveway. She attracts the pollen like a cloth…

Yellow are the cars that move through the swollen air. They move the pollen like wakes in the sea. Every finger print and every smudge comes to life…

Yellow are the skies. The trees cast out the season’s song on the wind. They remind me of the dandelion under the breath of a child...

Yellow is the street. It holds the arid dust in the smallest of crevices like caulk to a painter. It waits for rain…

Yellow are the rooftops. The brown shingles of my neighbor are faded now… The metal roof of the barn in the country hides its rust and looks out of focus…

Yellow are the fences and the fields… yellow are the window sills… yellow are the bicycles, hidden under the porch… yellow is our world as we wait for the waters of the sky for relief…

Yellow is the first days of Spring…

                                      Shannon R Killman

Audience of One

My Darby

I find her in the kitchen in a dancer’s pose… she reads the labels on the cereal boxes… she reads the notes on the refrigerator… she reads the opened mail on the counter…

I find her in the restroom after she brushes her long beautiful hair… she reads the shampoo bottles and the conditioner bottles… she reads the packaging paper on the bars of soap… she reads the smallest of words on the tube of toothpaste…

I find her in the family room in her favorite pajama dress… she pulls books off of the bookshelf and reads the slender spines… she reads the first drafts of old book reports left by the older children beside the printer… she reads the journals created by the young handwriting of classrooms of the past…

I find her in the den curled up in my favorite chair… she reads magazines that find their way out of their assigned basket beside the couch… she reads the fading label on the colorful pillow propped up on the love-seat… she reads the streaming words on the bottom of the screen on the television…

I find her in her room with her favorite soft blanket, snuggled in her bed… she reads her chosen book from the book pile in her classroom… she reads her sister’s favorite books, in secret… she reads books given to us by dear friends who know they will have a good home…

And I find her curled up on the couch with me as I lie down and form a readers desk for her with my knees… she reads her newest chosen adventure. She always starts with the cover… she reads the title page as she looks to my eyes for signs of my attention.  She clears her throat as she smooths out the open pages and she reads to me…

She reads to me with enthusiasm… she reads to me with purpose… she reads to me in color… she reads to me with full expression. I am her audience of one…

                                                                 Shannon R Killman

I Don’t Remember

 I don’t remember the last words I spoke to you… were they kind… were they soft… and did they go to you with a smile… did they have meaning and purpose? I search my mind to replay our last words… I would never have known they might be our last…

I want to remember… It is important to me to remember. Perhaps it will come to me in the quiet of the night… perhaps I will hear our words in the gentle breeze…

I don’t remember the last time I looked into your eyes… was it kind… did it leave you with a smile… did it have meaning and purpose? I search my mind to replay our last glance… I would never have known our eyes may never meet again…

I want to remember… It is important to me to remember. Perhaps it will come to me in my quiet thoughts of the day… perhaps I will see the kindness of your eyes in the stares of an infant…

I don’t remember the last time I touched your hand… was it kind… was it the touch of tenderness… did it leave you with a smile of happiness… did it have meaning and purpose? I search my mind to replay our last touch… I never would have known it might be our last embrace…

I want to remember… It is important to me to remember. Perhaps it will come to me in my dreams… perhaps I will feel your touch in the gentle warmth of the sun on my skin…

                                                Shannon R Killman

A Cloud Today

I walked within a cloud today. The season with its heavy air touched the earth like a blanket… soft on the edges.

I could not see the path before me… but I knew where I was going. My mind felt the details of the street. I placed my feet slowly in front… cautious of my way.

The air was thick. I pulled it into my lungs in a labored breath. The warmth of the air and the coolness on my skin confused my senses.

It would be easy to stop… to sit and to wait.

The sun was low and the air was low, but the air that muffled the sounds of my world would soon give into the strength of the breeze.

Time was slow there.

I love the clouds… they contrast… as they do…

                                      Shannon R Killman

Carli

I drove to the gulf coast of Florida this week. I pulled up  directions on the computer and realized two different routes. One route was all Interstate… south to Jacksonville, Florida and then west to the Florida panhandle. The other was a meandering slope through the center of Georgia to the coast and Panama City Beach. Both had a travel time of just over eight and a half hours. I took the scenic route…

 

Spring is hinting its arrival and I looked forward to seeing the Georgia countryside. It didn’t take long… as a visitor, as an observer, details of a quiet drive overwhelmed my senses. The countryside shared the flowers of the trees and the blooms of the earth.  An old clapboard sided barn leaned against the forces of gravity and perched above the red clay earth on its four corners… the hand-stacked river rock pillars have held to their purpose for generations.

My telephone has GPS… thankfully. She has a pleasant voice and is extremely accurate. I couldn’t have made the trip through the Georgia countryside without her. My children named the GPS… we call her Carli. Carli guided me through countless road changes… countless small towns and two lane roads. We drove through small towns like Hawkinsville and Cordelle. The town squares in Wrens and Lilly reminded me of an old romantic movie, set in the South… there were statues commemorating fallen Civil War Soldiers and war heroes of familiar surnames of the county.

I didn’t find a stretch of road on my journey that took me over 55 MPH… if I would have, I wouldn’t have seen the beautiful purposeful plantings of the Pecan trees that surrounded century old homesteads…the homes that are framed with dusty white picket fences. I wouldn’t have seen the cages of red roosters for sale. Maybe I wouldn’t have seen the rusty windmill that stood sentry over a once, mule plowed field surrounded by a hand split cedar fence.

I wouldn’t have seen the weathered and ancient cemeteries that held the shadows of the past… the rusting sedans that hold on to life as someone’s dream. I wouldn’t have seen the children playing basketball on the dirt driveway on the edge of town. I wouldn’t have seen the car dealership that held the majority of its shiny cars inside of a tiny corner building on Main Street. If I turned too late on a town street between county roads… Carli was there as my companion to remind me of my way…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Playing Hookie

I had to go to the coast during the week… just for the day. I don’t like going anywhere by myself. I bribe the children with promises of snacks or money to get them to go with me when I have to run the simplest of errands. I usually get a positive response from one or more of them. This trip took little encouragement. Jackson was caught up on his school work and all is well in Jackson-Land, so quiet whispers of permission were asked of the mother… house pass for Jax.

We started early… we had to make a trip to my workshop. I gathered my tools, gathered my supplies and watched Jax try to anticipate my next step… always helpful to gather an armful of tools or whatever I may need. He followed me around in the shop like a little puppy. I smiled to myself as I watched him brush the sawdust from his new jacket… and then his shoes… and his pants… and then the jacket again. It’s an unavoidable hazard in a workshop.

We set out on our journey. It is a significant road trip to the coast… especially in my Jeep. I knew what I was in store for… loud music, nonsensical conversation, numerous stops for food and water… restroom stops. I knew what to expect, and that is why I was looking forward to it.

As we got started, he asked me why I didn’t listen to the radio much when I drove alone. I explained to him that when we are younger, we find ways to occupy our minds. When we get older, we try and find ways to give the mind a rest… let our minds organize and figure out what we already have in them. He understood what I meant and I thought we would continue our conversation… until he turned the radio up… because  he "loves this song”…

We traveled well together… we laughed and played and I encouraged him to take a cat nap… didn’t happen. I worked my work at the beach house and he patiently waited for me to pack the Jeep up so we could head for the sandy beach. I knew he was growing anxious because he was pre-packing my tools…

We made our way to the beach through the dunes and through the winter winds. The water was choppy and dramatic… there were lines of wind driven frothy foam that would gather in front of us at the water’s edge and quickly disappear as they rolled across the sand. Jackson said they looked like rolling snow balls… but in reverse. The wind was cold and strong… the sand was sharp against our skin. We found a few shells… keepers… but no shark teeth.

The day was wearing on us both. The drive home was inevitable. We made it home safely and we walked up our driveway in the dark… I held him close as he walked in stride with me. As far as I am concerned… there’s nothing wrong with a little playing hookie…

                                                Shannon R Killman

the Tease of Spring

 I love this time of year… the calendar tells me it's  winter, but the wind and sun and the warmth on my skin tell me differently.  The cold air seems to be held off by the breath of spring. The evenings are pleasant and we gravitate toward the yard… the neighbors are there… the children of the neighborhood sing the songs of spring and fill the air with sounds of activity.

The mornings are filled with the dew of the night air. The tea-olive bush that hides in the backyard makes itself known. Light puffs of perfume swirl around the house into the neighborhood. The dark green wild onion weeds are a dramatic contrast to the straw colored carpet of sleeping grass. The edges of the yard seem to call out for grooming attention.

One short walk through the streets is a carnival to the eyes. Brilliant yellow bushes on the corners of quaint little houses cascade their willow-like branches to the ground like the fireworks of the summer season. The Bradford Pear trees that line our streets draw the eye toward the windy skies. The glossy white flowers cover every branch and stem.

The birch trees that I planted as small twigs tower over our yard. The gentle drippings of flowing sap plop against the dried leaves on the ground in a metronomic rhythm. The watery sap will soon stain the ground and driveway to remind me of the many seasons I have watched them grow.

I watched a blue bird on a quest for the perfect home. He is the scout for the family. I placed a bird house on the back fence years ago in hopes of attracting the brilliant colors of a blue bird. Each year, a scout will come to the house… he disappears inside to inspect the confines. This year, he sat in the hole which has been enlarged by a gnawing squirrel and looked upon the back yard. He flew to a near by branch of a red bud tree… he hopped around on a perching branch and swooped back to the house. He then flew to the fence and again, back to the house… I won’t know of his decision until early spring.

                                                              Shannon R Killman