Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for September, 2018

On Point

 

 

 

Sewing the ribbons

onto point shoes for the first time

I again feel clumsy

 

in this art of parenting.

Angle the ribbons,

or stitch them on straight?

 

How far from the back seam

does the elastic go?

How snug the fit?

 

How secure the stitch?

It was not so long ago

I didn’t know how warm

 

the bath. How tight

the swaddle. How

to soothe when the babe

 

was unable to say

what was wrong.

So little has changed,

 

me in the late hours

puzzling over lack

of instructions,

 

wanting so badly

to do it right, wishing

for some elusive grace,

 

astonished by how enormous

the love, the ribbon

running through my fingers.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

Then comes the day

when whatever street

you’re walking on

has you on one side

and your never

on the other and

the two of you meet

right there on the dotted

yellow line and there’s

not a damned thing

you can do to

stop it put its arms

around you, and

you don’t even

have to say yes,

it just happens.

It just happens.

Read Full Post »

One Parenting

 

 

in the same hand

I hold the rope to bind you,

the scissors to cut you free

Read Full Post »

 

 

sweet clover, sweet clover

sweet clover, sweet clover, yellow

sweet clover, sweet clover

 

Read Full Post »

The Chance

 

 

 

The doorway has

no lock, no knob, no latch,

not even a door

 

beyond it,

all you do not know

 

what keeps you

from walking through—

your own stone feet.

Read Full Post »

Without A Map

 

 

Silly me, I thought the boat was empty.

Thought there was no one else here to paddle

or steer. Thought I was alone and too small

to reach the rudder, too weak to lift

the great oars, somehow not seeing

the sea itself as captain, the sea itself as crew,

its waves carrying me places I never knew I needed

to go until, on that strange new shore, I found

myself exactly where I needed to be,

shipwrecked and wildly alive.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

It’s not so much because

poems make things better—

don’t heal the sick, don’t

stop a war, don’t make the bread

any less stale, don’t bring

people back from the dead.

But poems do have a way

of making me feel more

okay with the world not

being the way I wish it were.

They say yes to the world,

again and again, telling it

like it is. And then,

like a dandelion

already gone to seed,

they wait for the gust

that will strip them bare

until all that’s left

is a hint that once

there was something

lovely here.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

 

To live a day, to care for a single day, is to shape a life. Each day is an opportunity to choose where to place our care. What shall we do today? What simple acts of remembrance will we use to punctuate our time and enrich our walk upon the earth this single day?

—Wayne Muller, How, Then, Shall We Live?

 

 

How many kindnesses did I miss today?

How many chances to help another

did I walk past, my eyes somehow fixed

 

already around the corner? How much beauty

went unnoticed? How much joy left

unspent? I am like the hiker at the foot

 

of the mountain who wanders in the fog,

not noticing the fog circles only the base. If I chose

to climb just a little, I’d see how red cliffs reflect

 

afternoon sun, see how new snow

catches in the trees and makes of each limb

a masterpiece. How is it I am not in

 

a constant state of wonder? Even

the fog gathers the pink of morning,

makes a practice of softening each

 

surface it touches. So simple,

the art of choosing to pay attention,

a sidewalk not so different in this regard

 

from a mountain. Every face a chance

to fall in love. Every human story

an opportunity to listen, to place our care.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

Slow roasted,

the beets

become tender,

sweet,

how I long

to do the same

to these hard,

red thoughts.

Read Full Post »

One Continuous Practice

 

 

stitching my heart

to the moment

with purple string—

the moment slipping out

of every stitch

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »