Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgetting, forgiveness, poem, poetry, spell on August 31, 2015| 2 Comments »
In the book of spells
I do not find the one
that helps you forget
what you want
to forget. There is one
for making the bees
come out midwinter
and another to make
the walls speak what
they’ve seen. There’s
a spell for making
minutes go slower, and
a spell to turn a woman’s
skin green. But no spell
to forget what we wish
not to know. There are
thirty-one spells for
forgiveness, though.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged brokenness, love, poem, poetry, relationship on August 30, 2015| 1 Comment »
Though I am undeniably broken
I come to you with no need to be fixed.
I come to you the way one river
meets another river—not joining
out of thirst but because
there is so much power
and beauty in giving oneself
to another, in moving
through the world together.
I come to you the way the half moon
comes into the yard—I could be more
whole, but in the meantime,
I will bring you everything
I have.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, gratitude, harvest, poem, poetry, potato on August 29, 2015| 3 Comments »
There is no way to know
what we’ll find beneath
the yellowing leaves.
And always I forget
which varieties I’ve planted
and where. And so, when
the Finnish fingerlings appear
just below the surface,
I thrill in their golden
skin and knobby shapes,
and when the dark purple
potatoes emerge from the depths
of the garden bed,
by then, I am already kneeling,
but something inside kneels, too—
oh the russet and red-skinned
and pink-fleshed miracle of it all,
the sheer delight
of running my fingers
through the dirt and
pulling out potatoes,
each one somehow
a surprise, a small reminder
of how beautifully
the world can work,
how the darkness
nourishes such incredible
gifts. Ten hours since
I left the garden, and
whatever inside me knew to kneel
is still enthralled in prayer.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aliveness, being present, poem, poetry on August 29, 2015| 1 Comment »
Some mornings, for no reason,
the world is newer. The color
of the grass, the scent of last night’s rain,
the feel of the lover’s skin.
Everything feels charged
and abuzz with itself.
You might say, and
I would not argue,
that the world and everything in it
is another day older.
Yes, of course, and there
is also this: the taste of this peach—
I have tasted peaches before—
but this one is so very peach,
so remarkably peach,
like something I have known
only very, very new.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged deer, driving, helplessness, poem, poetry on August 28, 2015| 1 Comment »
the deer beside the highway
struggling to stand on broken legs
has been dead four days
and still I try to think of ways
I might save it
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blackberry jam, life, poem, poetry on August 27, 2015| 4 Comments »
On the day I learned that he died,
I made blackberry jam. The kitchen
was steamy and hot from the water bath,
and the bubbling saucepan of fruit took nearly
an hour to gel. I stood and stirred
and stirred and stood. The sweet scent
touched everything. It was gray
outside and smelled of rain, while in
the pot deepened a most beautiful darkness,
the color of sugar that comes with time.
It was an accident, of course, the kind
that makes every one of us think
we are lucky to be alive, lucky to stand
wherever we are standing, whether
it’s in line for a bus or beside the road
or in front of a chalkboard or
in the middle of the kitchen stirring
blackberry jam. How could I not fall in love
with the heat, with the color of blackberries,
how could I not fall in love with the cat
and the chatter of the girl playing dolls
and the racket of the boys throwing pillows
and even the ache in my feet. What a blessing
to be alive, to feel this awful tug
in my gut, this surge of what if,
this swell of what was, this terrible gift
of standing for hours to preserve what is sweet
as if I believe there will be a day months from now
when we will eat the sweetness and
know ourselves lucky to be alive.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged busy-ness, love, poem, poetry on August 26, 2015| 1 Comment »
Never enough arms
to juggle the minutes.
Always something to fill,
and something to fix,
something to carry,
something amiss—
one eye on the clock,
one eye on the winds.
I’m a tangle, a jumble,
a snarl of to-do,
but I always keep
two arms free
to reach
toward you.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, music, poem, poetry on August 24, 2015| 3 Comments »
Oh hear that, love,
the night sky has become
an opera of blossoms.
The stars are opening
into song for anyone
who will listen.
As always, someone’s
heart is breaking,
someone’s getting even.
And someone’s love
is gaining wings.
And someone’s trapped
in prison. And all of us
are invited to be
singers in the chorus.
Or perhaps
to be the silence.
Or perhaps to write
the score. Oh darn
the world of daytime things
that keeps us from this art.
Let’s pretend that we don’t know
the end. Now’s the time
the start.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, falling in love with the world, light, poem, poetry on August 23, 2015| 1 Comment »
“Look,” she says, “at the light
on the waves,” and no matter what else
has happened today,
there it is, the light, the light on the waves,
and for this moment it’s beauty enough
that the rest of the world
falls away, and I fall in love
with being alive
and with the light,
the light on the waves.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged jazz, poem, poetry, relationship on August 22, 2015| 1 Comment »
please, not the book
about jazz sitting pretty on the shelf—
let me be the hard-swinging
restless improvisation
slipping right off the known scale
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged order, poem, poetry on August 21, 2015| 1 Comment »
Inside the egg, the question.
Inside the leaf, the light.
Inside the beak, silence.
Inside the mask, the night.
Inside the yarn, the tangle.
Inside the blue, the why.
Inside the cage, the great escape.
Inside the wings, the high.
Inside the paint, curiosity.
Inside the stich, the gap.
Inside the now, tomorrow.
Outside the lines, the map.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fire, memory, poem, poetry, smoke on August 19, 2015| 2 Comments »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged balance, falling, poem, poetry, wings on August 19, 2015| 4 Comments »
Let’s say you’re carrying a priceless bowl
overflowing with fruits and flowers,
and let’s say you’re balancing it on your head.
And let’s say you’re on a high wire.
And let’s say the wire is above the falls.
And let’s say it’s electrical.
And let’s say it’s about to come unplugged.
Let’s say you’re in the middle.
What is it that inspires you
to do these crazy things?
Regardless, Now’d be the right time to learn
how to use those enormous wings,
those wings you’ve pretended not to have—
that you hid because, who knows why?
We all fall sometime from the high wire act,
but some of us learn to fly.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged depression, outsider, poem, poetry on August 17, 2015| 3 Comments »
Swirl me with pink and plum and blue,
and soak me in wisps of amber and orange.
Drench me in cream and nectarine.
Please, how do I get there?
This wooden heart seems
to only know how to beat
in shades of brown.
I see it from here, that sunset world.
God it is beautiful—
but it is like a canvas
I stare at for years,
I know it’s every line by heart,
but I can never enter.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, friendship, life, poem, poetry on August 17, 2015| 3 Comments »
Of course I know I am going to die
I know it the same way I know
the sun is dying, too. This is a fact,
that feels far away. All the same,
I carry it with me today as I notice
how the new summer growth
on the spruce is startlingly blue.
And the river, low and clear, wears a shimmer
in its song. Every flower in the bed
is fully in blossom, and the meadows
are lush and green. I know they will die,
as I will die, though all of us seem so wildly
alive in this moment, especially the bindweed
I pull from the garden as if
there will be a tomorrow
with plants that need space to grow.
I speak to the reaching tendrils of beans
in hopes of a harvest,
though there are, as of yet, no white blooms.
I tell them frost will come soon.
When Donna’s letter arrives on my screen,
I am just stepping in from the garden.
It was unexpected, she says.
In her letter, I swallow a hint of what else
is as real as the green all around,
and in me ripens a deeper hint of blue,
a hue that reframes so tenderly
these fleet shades of the living.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged escape, freedom, housewife, milk, poem, poetry on August 15, 2015| 1 Comment »
This morning when she pours the milk
into the child’s cup, she doesn’t stop.
She pours until the cup is full, until
it spills across the counter, ’til it spills
onto the floor. She pours and pours
until the kitchen is flooded in milk,
it is up to her knees, it is up to her waist,
it is dammed against the kitchen door,
which she opens, then she floats the creamy tide
into morning, riding atop the pearly tide.
With one hand, she waves at her neighbors,
with the other she continues to pour the milk.
She is surfing now through the streets of town,
past the bank, past the school, past the crowd
who has gathered to stare. “Oh,” they say,
with a shake of their heads, “she has really lost it
this time, bless her heart,” and they step
on the curb to keep their feet from getting wet,
and she smiles and blows them a one-handed kiss,
and with her other hand she pours and pours.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged layers, poem, poetry, self discovery on August 15, 2015| 3 Comments »
Steeping so long
in this coat of shoulds
I forgot it was on
’til slipping out by accident
I see it hanging separate
while I stand bare
and strangely new,
wondering what this naked
soul can do.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, elephant, fitting in, hummingbird, poem, poetry on August 13, 2015| 2 Comments »
I wanted to be more like you,
I did. I wanted to fit in
your hummingbird world
with its hummingbird nests
and its delicate wings and
its predisposition toward
delicate things, such as
tea cups and flowers
and gossamer strings.
So I painted my body
with delicate swirls
and colorful, whimsical
intricate whorls, and I tried
to fit my whole self inside
your dainty settings,
I tried, I tried to be more
like you, but there is no hiding
these giant gray legs and
this massive gray trunk
and these floppy gray ears.
It’s obvious. I am an elephant,
dear, and I just can’t squeeze into
this fragile world.
I belong home
in the elephant herd.
And I’m sorry I broke your fine
china cups. It’s so evident now
I can’t fit in them, but …
well, sometimes we need
to fail to learn. We need to digress
before we return.
I still think you’re lovely,
though slightly absurd,
oh beautiful, delicate,
bright hummingbirds.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged crystal ball, poem, poetry, possibility on August 13, 2015| Leave a Comment »
A dozen dozen crystal balls
and not a one will tell us how
our story ends. Opaque as pearls,
they show us nothing of our world.
A dozen dozen crystal balls,
all of them unreadable.
And still we try. We want to know
just how the future will unfold.
Instead of crystal balls, my dear,
let’s try using a handheld mirror.
Or better yet, a windowed room.
Or better yet, some hiking shoes.
Let’s see what is unfolding now
and join it in its opening.
Already much more is possible
when we don’t know where we’re going.