Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, gloves, poem, poetry on November 30, 2018| Leave a Comment »
I must take off my gloves—
not the rubber gloves
for dishwashing, nor
the stiff cloth gloves for the garden,
not the wool gloves for snow
nor the leather gloves for stacking wood—
but the gloves you can’t see,
the gloves I wear to protect
you from me. Or me from you.
The invisible layers I think
I need to keep us safe. When
what you really need, what
I really want, is to show up
exposed, bare, to strip off
the unseen covering,
and from this tender place, say
I am sorry.
Posted in Uncategorized on November 29, 2018| 13 Comments »
We are built to make mistakes, coded for error.
—Lewis Thomas
And thank god for mistakes,
our inherent inclination to not do
what we’re supposed to. It’s cellular,
they say. Biological. Evolutionary.
Just two nights ago, my back erred.
Stopped working. Would not stand straight.
Would not sit. No walking. No bending.
No lifting. No twisting. You lay down,
it said. You don’t move. And so for two days,
I’ve watched the sky out the window.
I’ve watched the wall be a wall. I’ve
marveled at the body, how it changes
from go to no in an instant. How
a simple mistake—a lunge to the side—
didn’t seem like a mistake at the time.
And yet, because of it, rest. Because of it,
a quieting. A welcome nothing. The occasion
to know healing. The firm invitation
to learn to say no. How difficult times
help us grow. How mistakes become
game changers, chances for transformation,
the summons to wonder, What am I doing
here anyway? Why am I really here? And
the bravest part of the self steps in to answer.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged frustration, math, poem, poetry on November 26, 2018| 1 Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, ice, inner child, parenting, poem, poetry, winter on November 26, 2018| 2 Comments »
See, I want to say to my son. See
how the pond has frozen in thick,
continuous curves. See all the lines,
how they ring each other, like dozens
of tiny orbits. I want to show him
the marvel of it all, but he is too old
now for marvels, or perhaps too young,
the precise age where beauty is boring.
And so I take the child of myself to the pond
and show her the rings. I resist the urge
to explain how the meltwater formed them,
how surface-tension forces make liquid melt
cling against the lower parts of the ice.
Instead, I let her gaze at the miracle,
trace the concentric bands with her fingers.
How curious the rings are, like frozen halos
that fit enormous angels. How astonishing
in their design. Just wait till I show her
we can walk on it, too. I let her amazement
become my own, our feet slipping
across the smooth surface, our breath
rising in white ephemeral curls.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, momento mori, poem, poetry on November 24, 2018| 1 Comment »
Scent of ripe quince—
how it wholly takes over.
Salt. Butter.
Pure cold water.
Release of carrot
just pulled from the earth.
Purple of lilac.
Playing with words.
Sweet thrill as a note
rises up through the lips.
Kissing, of course—
the sweet red crush of it.
Sun on my shoulder.
Voice of the lover.
The moment before
the moon breaks over
the horizon. Reading.
Walking for days.
Staring at stars.
High alpine skies.
And all the things I didn’t try.
All the unwalked paths.
Sleeping in. Waking up.
Uncontainable laughter.
And the silence after.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged journey, poem, poetry, wonder on November 24, 2018| Leave a Comment »
returning from the journey,
as if the return isn’t also
a journey—
as if this journey called home
isn’t also riddled with wonder, surprise
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apple, apple pie, cooking, daughter, fanny farmer, mother, poem, poetry, thanksgiving on November 23, 2018| 2 Comments »
We begin by talking for an hour
about the kids, her church, dad’s health,
and how we both cry when we see acts of goodness.
We clean the kitchen. Address one mess
before starting the next. Then we peel apples,
marvel at their size—how much larger
they must be than in the time of Fanny Farmer,
who thinks we might need eight tart apples
for our nine-inch crust. Fanny, even a hundred years later,
you are still synonymous with precision,
organization and good food. And, as I recall,
you, too, practiced your art in your mother’s kitchen.
As it is, seven apples in 2018 are enough
to fill two generous crusts. Oh Fanny,
some things have changed, for instance
this Granny Smith, large as my fist. But some things
are exactly the same. A level teaspoon
is still a level teaspoon. The simplest recipes
are still often the best. And it’s still so good
to make a pie with your mother, talking
about all of life’s loose ends, measuring sugar,
filling the crusts, then cleaning up the mess
as the scent of sweetness touches everything.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratitude, poem, poetry, practice, thanksgiving on November 22, 2018| 2 Comments »
To be grateful not only for flower,
but also for mud, grime,
slug, slime, the dingy,
the filthy, the tired,
to be grateful not only for star
but also for what is prickly, thornsome,
tricky, testy, sore,
to be grateful not only for warmth
but also for the cold that holds it,
the chill, the bite, the nip, the freeze,
the breeze that blows always head on.
To not only say thanks, but live it.
To not only know thanks, but give it.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Bosnia, greeting, hands, poem, poetry, strangers, taxi on November 20, 2018| 2 Comments »
In my country, he said, we take strangers
by the hand when we greet them.
His taxi wove through the northbound cars
on Lakeshore Drive, and I watched his eyes
in the rearview mirror as they searched
the lanes for where to go. It’s strange,
perhaps, he said, to offer someone
your bare hand, but it’s a nice gesture,
I think. In the world beyond the car,
how many strangers did we pass
in one minute? How many chances
to reach toward another and say
Hello, or as they say in Bosnia,
Zdravo? How many chances
to open some small part of ourselves
and trust the other to do the same?
I wanted to disagree with the man.
I wanted to tell him, that’s what
we do in this country, too. But
clearly his experience told him otherwise.
Here, he said, people shake at the end
of a conversation to make a deal.
But not at the beginning. At least
not with strangers.
I want to start a revolution. I want
our country shake hands more.
I want us to extend ourselves
toward those we don’t know,
to offer them something of ourselves,
to be vulnerable, welcoming, kind.
When I got out of the car, I thanked the man
in his tongue, as he’d taught me, Hvala.
I paid with the credit card in the back.
I didn’t reach forward to seal the deal.
I stepped out grateful for what he gave me—
one more way to revere creation,
one more way to honor what hands can do.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged music, poem, poetry, song on November 20, 2018| Leave a Comment »
not just to play
the song, but to be the song—
the leaping melody,
the sullen chords,
the infinite silence inside