by Bobbi Sinha-Morey   Saucer of StarlightThe woman with dementia
doesn’t come out to sit in her
patio anymore and her wind
chimes no longer caressed by
the wind have lost their sound;
the only spark of bright energy
are the blue jays and wrens that
visit the feeder—pecking away,
stealing seeds for their families,
chased away by the enshadowing
dusk and her motion sensors.
My neighbor Dee is so close I
often get a peek at her, from my
window to hers, a lamp lighting
up the front room when it’s at
night, a book or newspaper in
her hands; or, if it’s her husband,
the blurred hues of the TV when
she’s in their room sleeping or
staring into space, waking by
morning after a peaceful rest,
but  unable to care for herself
in the day, suffering from her
illness and no short-term
memory. Half the time her
husband spends nursing her,
confined for so long inside
their home it’s hard for him
to get away. One day I saw
her appear and tears were in
her eyes. I wished I could
share a saucer of starlight
with her, capture a glimmer
of happiness from deep inside.   Gracing the HeavensI touched the lavender
by the fence, its fresh
scent rising when I saw
my father again, climbing
into his Sunfish from
the dock in the dusk,
under a deepening sky
when his sail caught
the moonlight like a wing,
gliding so silently, the flicker
of a smile on his face; the lake,
his favorite release, and he’d
rise just before dawn to swim
by sunrise, watch doves above
him in the morning air, knowing
it would be his passion if  he
could swim all day. Now ribbons
of darkening light are gracing
the heavens as he draws halfway
to the other shore; his shirt
whipping behind him, a man
triumphantly navigating the
waters; my father, alone with
himself, blessed by his dreams.   The Fifth of MayOn the fifth of May I take
the path around the curving
river, find my familiar place
near the grove of trees and
sit in one of two wooden
sun chairs just to write to
you today; the moist smell
of pine behind me, the quiet
praise from above. And, in
my solace, I tell you of
the ripenings just beyond
my home—pears hanging
on the tree by their stems,
Sundays when I climb ladders
with my niece to pick peaches
and apples, take them home to
make pie. Outside my kitchen
I’ve been cultivating my green
thumb: tulips have grown,
the clematis in bud, plum trees
center four vegetable plots;
yesterday the first three roses
opened up. I’d love to send
you their fragrance, dab a little
on your envelope before
heading to the post office.
In the beauty of this sunny
day I saw the beginnings of
the sunset unfolding and I
made my way idly back,
waiting til its petals closed
all the way up to the top.       About the Author:Bobbi Sinha-MoreyBobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, and Old Red Kimono. Her books of poetry are available at and her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Best of the Net 2018 Anthology Awards hosted by Sundress Publications.