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Archive for July, 2016

Canyoneering

 

 

 

If I had known to wish for this,

I would have—this day with its heat

and the way we found

the canyon, so narrow

and sculpted and smooth

with its creek so cold and shallow

and its falls not too tall to climb,

and my children

somehow quickly untamed

and willing to wade

and scale and explore.

 

Some days are like this,

no want to cajole or nudge,

no need to pretend things

are better than they are,

just laughter and shine

and feral wonder

and joy so wholly present

it’s only later I think to wish

it could last forever.

 

 

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perhaps by wind,

the first penstemon

entered the field

and flowered

and cast its seeds

and they flowered

and cast their seeds

and now the field

is full of tall, lovely

purple blooms—

look what one small

accidental beauty

can do.

 

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Spontaneous

 

 

 

hulling strawberries

for the freezer I think of

how many sweetnesses

are put off till later—

 

that ripest berry,

it is delicious, red stain

on my hands, my lips

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I tell her, well, if you continue to work with horses,

before long you’ll be kicked and bucked and bit, too.

She smiles solemnly, slips back into her boots.

 

If only the heart could wear boots, I think,

something to make it feel a little more invincible.

No, I think. It doesn’t work that way. The heart,

 

though rolled and kicked and bucked and bit,

must never feel invincible. It must always know

it is in terrible danger of being hurt

 

and return to love anyway.

 

 

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One Best Intention

 

 

 

I knit words into a shawl

to wrap around your shiver

then wish I’d brought a real blanket, warm

 

 

 

 

 

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Walking in wildflowers

over our heads

my son and I

disappear

from the world—

only the nettles

find us.

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Latin 101

 

 

 

Of course we begin

with the impossible—

conjugating love.

Amo, amas, amat,

My son and I sit together

on the couch and chant

the old syllables

that have informed

so many tongues.

Amamus, amatis, amant.

It’s always the first lesson

when learning

this language

that very few speak anymore.

Every other language

I’ve studied begins

with to have, to go, to be.

But no. Here we begin

with all the ways

that humans might prove

our humanness.

I love. You love. He loves.

None of us ever gets

it right. Still, we

devote our lives

to these six possibilities.

We love. You love. They love.

Everything depends on this.

To my son, they are just

syllables. He thrills

that he can remember them.

But his mother, she wanders them

like paths, semitae,

as if she is following them

through fields of flowers

with no idea where her

feet might land next,

hoping that even though

the language has died

there’s still some

vital truth in it.

She can almost

smell the perfume.

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Example

 

 

 

Above my window

two tiny hummingbird beaks

hover just beyond the edge of a nest

which is smaller than my hand—

this, I think, is what it looks like,

the start of a long, long journey.

By fall, they will be in Mexico.

They don’t even know yet

they can fly.

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Breather

 

            for Christie and Dave

 

 

While standing amidst

the airy branches

of the mulberry bush

and pulling the darkest

fruits to our lips

and laughing

in the bliss of it,

it’s easy to believe

we will always

be happy, that there

will always be sweetness

enough to share,

and that there will always

be something wonderful

yet to ripen.

Yes, it is raining,

and yes, there are troubles,

far away and even inside

our own stories,

but for now, there’s

this branch, heavy

with midsummer,

there’s this humming

of old melodies

we all know, there’s

this stain on our chins,

on our busy hands.

 

 

 

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when all the balls drop

pick them up with a smile

and let the last thing

they see be the sparkle in your eye

and your hands no longer grasping

 

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