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Archive for September, 2014

Visiting Carter

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 8, 2014| 1 Comment »

Because the boy
has just learned to count,
he points to the stars
and says, “One.”
He does not yet
have a word for two.
Someday, perhaps,
I will be able
to survey
everything I see
and arrive
at the same number.

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I Used to Think I Knew How the Story Ended

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on September 7, 2014| 4 Comments »

After the sunflowers
have dropped their pollen
and dropped their leaves

and hung their seeded heads
to dry, let me sit here
in the garden where

it is not quite yet all
dead, where the calendula
surge in orange bloom,

their seeds not yet
dark brittle moons, and if
I still think that I know

anything of how
things go, then
as the dark and cold

grow stronger, let me
sit a while longer,
and then a little more.

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A Boat Could Sail the Desert on Such Water

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 6, 2014| 1 Comment »

Yes, if I am
the wind,
then let you
be the sail,
and if I am
the water,
let you be
the water, too.

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Walking Home from School with my Daughter

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 5, 2014| 1 Comment »

She speaks in a secret language.
It is always made up on the spot.
She will look at me most sincerely
and say something she knows I’ll not
understand. But what pleasure when
I do. This time, she wants raspberries,
please. And I offer them. And then,
in plain English, she asks me,
surprised and slightly thrilled,
Mom, how’d you know what I mean?
And I respond in the secret language
only eyes can speak.

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After Watching a Scary Movie, My Daughter Begins to Cry

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 4, 2014| 2 Comments »

And my brain rifles
through my internal drawer
of office supplies to deal
with her distress. It comes up
with an eraser and white out
to delete the pain, a Sharpie
to scribble it out. Scissors to cut
it away. A pencil to write a new story.
A miscellaneous small marble
that could be used to distract.
And my heart lets the brain
carry on with its busyness
and meanwhile tells
my arms to hold her, tells
me to sit on the couch beside
her and listen to her fears
and let her cry until
the tears are done.

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Logic Goes to the Desert

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 3, 2014| 1 Comment »

Stop trying to understand it,
this falling in love with the scent
of cliff rose and heliotrope.
Just fall into the sweetness
and keep on falling.

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Yes, Even the Cosmos

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 2, 2014| 3 Comments »

It is not so hard
to rip out the arugula
after it’s bolted and
gone to seed. There’s
the initial wishing that
it weren’t so, that
the leaves were still
vibrantly green. But
they’re not. And so
the quick tug and
the roots come clean.
Sometimes you have
to pull up everything
to find the one thing
that cannot be removed.
That’s a whole lot
of riddance, much it
bindweed—rhizomal,
so extensive you
don’t know where
to start. I’m not talking about
the garden anymore,
I am talking about my heart.

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Trail of the Ancients

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 1, 2014| 4 Comments »

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Of course I imagine my own ruins
as I wander through the remains
of the towers built by the Ancestral Puebloans
at the edge of a high desert canyon.
Someday about seven hundred years
from now a woman with her two children
and her husband could be walking past
what is left of the river rock chimney
that stands at the center of my house.
She might run her fingers over the stones,
wondering, as I am now, why the people
left this place. And were they happy here?
And what songs did they sing? Her children
are probably tugging at her arms, begging
her to go. Please, they will say, this is so boring.
And she will agree to leave, but she will take her time,
her eye landing on a shard—it’s from one of my green
dinner plates. She picks it up, a real find.
She wonders what kind of food I ate.
And what kept me awake at night.
And if my children were easier. She drops
the green shard in her pocket and rubs
the sharp edge against her thumb.
There is never enough time, she thinks,
as she turns from the chimney toward
the voices somewhere further down the trail.

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