After Labor Day

After Labor Day, by Alison Boylston Piazza

The same sun slants with summer heat
On beach and field and narrow street,
Gardens bloom in brilliant hue
Beneath the endless, arching blue,
Calm seas reflect the harbor light
And stars gleam in the velvet night.
These could be summer nights and days
But the pattern has changed in many ways:
The beach that was thronged in days gone by
Now knows only the seagull's cry;
The village wakens to the sound
Of bright-faced children school-ward bound,
And fishing boats chug down the bay
Where fleets of pleasure craft once lay.
Now the town folk have their share
Of sparkling sea and clean salt air,
Of time to be lazy in the sun,
Content with summer tasks well done.

A Mother's Lament

A Poem by my mother, Alison Boylston Piazza:

A Mother's Lament

Water in puddles and gutters and such
Always appeals to small boys much too much,
But water can lose all its charms, it appears,
When well-mixed with soap and applied to the ears.

Twenty-one Years Today

Alison Boylston Piazza, November 18, 1913 - March 14, 1992.

A few years before my mother died, she planted a handful of crocus bulbs in the front of the Main Street house. Within only a few years they had multiplied to the point of the small front yard between the porch and the sidewalk's being a sea of purple. After her death, they always came into bloom right around her anniversary, beginning with a few blooms around March 14, the day she died, and climaxing by March 21, the day she was buried. Who doesn't love spring and seeing the first crocus blooming, but I have always found the blooming of these particular crocuses (crocii, actually, but who ever says that?) reassuring; this not-so-subtle hint of the theme of new life and resurrection being tied directly to my mother. The blooms have dwindled over the years - and I do wonder if the greens-boosting fertilizer that a well-meaning tenant applied to the lawn a few years back is to blame - and perhaps I will replenish the crop at some point - but I do look forward to their blooming every year, and what better day - or way - to get out and rake and clean - waking up the large muscle group while honoring my dear mother - than today?

Autumn Beach

I do wish I had more time to mess around with this blog (soon, I hope). For today, I turn these pages over to my favorite guest-blogger, my late and great mother, with a photo from the archives, South Beach, circa 1987.

Autumn Beach                by Alison Boylston Piazza

This is the best time, the quiet and good time,

The searching-for-sea-glass and gathering-wood time.

On clean swept sand, an occasional trace

Of sandpiper's footprints, as fragile as lace.

Limpid blue water and tranquil blue sky,

Stillness pierced only by seagull's shrill cry -

This is the best time, this golden fall,

This is the very best season of all.

The Morning Egg

Remember a few years back (who can keep track, the verdict changes so often) when the authorities decided that eggs were bad for us? Here were my dear mother's thoughts on the matter, written for her friend David Hewlett, then-organist at the Federated Church whose weekly lunchtime concerts she attended regularly; penned sometime during the 1980s, I believe.

For David by Alison Boylston Piazza

Take away my nicotine,

Sugar, butter, and caffeine,

Salt, without a single doubt,

Is something I can do without,

And living without alcohol

Doesn't bother me at all,

But please, on bended knee I beg,

Don't take away my morning egg!

Fashion Hints for May

You may have noticed in these pages the occasional appearance of the writings of my dear late mother. I'm in the process of illustrating her poetry - "doggerel," she called it - a collection of a couple of dozen poems that range from sardonic to sentimental which she typed out on onion skin on her trusty black Royal and bound into a blue three-ring folder. I keep this folder in my travel bag so it is always with me in case inspiration strikes (and I noticed today that the pages are becoming worn from my perusing). This time, my inspiration was nudged by the purple lilac that has begun to bloom all over town. Half the fun was walking the streets after supper looking for the perfect lilac bush to photograph; the other half was the smell.
(the collection - so far - is here)

Fashion Hints for May by Alison Boylston Piazza

Old houses should be dressed in grey,

Pearl-sheened by years of sun and rain,

With frosty white to brighten doors

And outline every window pane.

And then to add a subtle note

Of color and of fragrance rare,

A purple lilac standing tall

Among green leaves should blossom there.

A Pool of Daffodils

A poem by Alison Boylston Piazza.

Every winter, year after year,

We wait for signs of spring to appear,

As we struggle through wind and snow and frost.

But then, when it seems all hope is lost,

A fountain of forsythia spills

Into a pool of daffodils.

First Day of Spring

Well, I didn't quite find the sea of purple and white I had anticipated finding today in my Main Street yard - maybe crocuses are cyclical, or maybe they bloomed last week while I was gone, or maybe something ate them; I'm seeing nibbles here - nonetheless, I was rather delighted to have blown into town on a first-day-of-spring snow-storm.

If you look closely, you'll see a few flakes on the bloom in the photo. It's not that unusual for it to snow at this time of year around here, actually. Today - March 21 - is the same date that I buried my mother, nineteen years ago, and I remember very distinctly that it snowed on that day, too.

Spring Fever                     By Alison Boylston Piazza

Crocuses are blooming, 

Spring is in the air,

So why am I still wearing 

My winter underwear?

In mittens, scarf and jacket,

Woolen cap and socks,

What a way to celebrate

The vernal equinox!

Ode to Snow

More often than not, I check the weather report for Edgartown prior to my departing Brookline on Monday mornings to get an idea of how to dress and what clothes to pack, but this past Monday I did not. Skies were gray in the city, so I at least thought of tossing my snow boots into my bag, just in case, and lucky for me I did, because by Duxbury - to my surprise and partial delight (I say partial because though I do love snow, I had not given myself any leeway, time-wise, for bad-weather driving) - there was already a coating of snow on the ground and it was coming down hard.

Anyway, here is a short verse, penned by my dear mother a few years back, a ditty I often quote - in elevators, in the check-out line at Trader Joe's, on the street corner - when people say they hate snow (followed by a few photos from Tuesday).

Sign of Age         by Alison Boylston Piazza

If you don't feel a thrill at the news that it's snowing,

Don't look now - your years are showing.

Autumn Prayer

by Alison Boylston Piazza

When raking leaves becomes such a chore

That you really think you can't rake anymore,

That's the time that you pray very hard

That they'll all blow into your neighbor's yard.

Song for the Old Year

A poem by Alison Boylston Piazza

The year is beginning to turn gray;

Gray sky, gray sea -

Clinging, like the old bird's nest in the apple tree

To one last day

Of hope that this is not really all

There is of sun and warm breezes

Before earth freezes

And white silence starts to fall.