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Grace

 

 

 

After all these years of falling, falling,

terrified of my own weight, terrified

of gravity, after all these years of dropping

through the sky, through all these fears

of not good enough, certain I will crash,

I will die, I find myself now wearing

a great white parachute that appeared

as if I were dreaming, to save me.

 

After all these years harnessed only to fear,

I land gently, as if on a flat green lawn.

And I’m not just safe, I’m smiling.

I try to reason it logically: Air resistance

with a chute is greater than gravity.

But there is no logic here. How

did the parachute appear? I

didn’t even ask to be saved. Here I am,

good enough, two feet on the ground.

After years and years of falling,

I’m okay. I’m wildly okay.

This Being a Parent

 (with thanks to Rebecca Mullen)

 

The way the tangerine never thinks

to thank its peel, the way the button

doesn’t appreciate the thread

that tethers it, the way the water

doesn’t honor the shore

for encompassing it, this is the way I want

you to take me for granted. As if

I will always be here to hold you. As if

you are so safe you forget

that things change. As if you are so sure

of my love that it’s as assumed

as air, as unremarkable as birdsong

in summer, as given as the gravity

that keeps you from floating away,

as constant as the sound of the river

that you need to leave before

you remember to hear it again.

 

 

This morning the new kitten played with a hair tie

for twenty minutes, kicking it under the table,

swatting it across the room, catching it on a nail

and tossing it into the air. Meanwhile, I tried

to do the same thing with an idea—tried

to bat at it, swipe at it, fling it across the room

and then chase it and pounce on it again.

But that’s not what happened. The idea

sat dead on the desk. I barely even looked at it.

I let my paws make tea instead. And then

went to Facebook. Then vacuumed the room.

Then stared at the idea and wondered why

it hadn’t moved. Boring idea. Dumb idea.

Why did it just sit there, lifeless as a hair tie?

Eventually the kitten, exhausted from frolic,

curled down for a nap. I sat back in the chair,

wondered at what I might learn from the cat.

Picked up the idea again. Gave it a whack. And darned

if it didn’t take on some life as my nose

nudged it into new places. Curious, my whole body

readied to pounce, my tail swishing behind my back.

 

*Yes, friends, we’ve gotten a new kitten, Tamale.

Wish

 

 

 

Perhaps because I am cold

I want to bring you warmth—

isn’t that how it goes?

We wish for each other

what we most want for ourselves.

And so I wish you real love,

the kind that is as familiar

as brushing your teeth, as spectacular

as the sky tonight drenching the world

in pink just before

the dark took everything.

Big Eden

 

 

 

As surely as I know how to spell harvest,

I understood today that no matter our job titles,

our work is gardener: always the same:

Plant the seeds. Tend what grows. Nourish.

Pinch back. Repeat. What a gift to see, at last,

the size of the garden. What a gift

to be in service to the world—to pull up

our sleeves, to smell the earth, to take

what we’ve been given and make it better,

to feed the others, to do it again.

 

 

 

I woke up giddy, because

on rising, there was still

a world. Snow out the window,

and a window! And a cover

on the bed. And a bed!

And a body that ached

from the fall in the trees,

but dang, I had a body.

And it woke up! And yeah,

there is work to do, lots

and lots of work to do,

and love to make and

messes to clean, and

yes, here we are to do it.

The Truth

 

 

Inside the bright words

there are other words

that want to be said—

small words

in dark shells.

.

It reminds me

of the sunflowers

that grew in the fall—

how we loved them

for their golden petals,

 

but they were true

to the small dark seeds

that grew them,

to the small dark seeds

they grew.

 

 

 

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

photo by Kaycee Clark

 

What poem scared you the most to write? What did you learn while researching poems? those are two of the questions I was asked in the interview for The Colorado Sun about my most recent book, Naked for Tea. The interview was published today–coordinated in part by the Colorado Author’ League. Read it here, and find, too, a link to a poem from the book about how we help each other as we are “lost.”

Longing to Help

 

 

The world enters

us as breath. We

return to it itself

as breath.

            —Joseph Hutchison, “Comfort Food: Breath”

 

 

And so today, on a day

when I feel quite sure

I can’t give you anything,

not anything that really matters,

I give you my breath.

It’s more conceptual

than actual, perhaps,

though scientists say

that the molecules we breathe

have been redistributed

in our atmosphere

for a century or two.

I decide to breathe as if.

As if with each breath,

I connect to you. As if

with each breath, we

become just a little

more each other

one molecule at a time.

 

 

 

 

After cutting open hundreds, thousands

of avocados, I marvel as my friend Kyra

cuts off the top. Slices it right off.

And I stare at her, at the knife, at the tip

of the avocado listing on the cutting board.

How easily she scoops out the creamy green flesh.

How simply she cuts more rounds around the pit.

 

All these years, I’ve sliced avocados lengthwise.

It’s as if I’ve just learned a new word for yes.

As if the sun itself just rose right here in the kitchen.

It takes so little to open us, to help us

see everything new. Even that prayer I pray

the same way. These hands. This common fruit.

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