I don’t know how it is
that before I even open my eyes,
I feel it in my blood—
the small measure of light
that will arrive today.
I marvel how trust in the light
is as powerful
as the light itself.
By the time dawn comes,
already, I am glowing.
Archive for December, 2021
Before Sunrise the Day After the Winter Solstice
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged light, solstice, trust on December 23, 2021| 10 Comments »
Meeting the Holidays
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, grief, words on December 22, 2021| 18 Comments »
They mean well, of course,
the people who say things
such as, The holidays are hard.
And they’re right. Like not hanging
the blue stocking on the fireplace.
Like not needing to hide the red hots
because there is no one who will steal them.
But these moments are no more difficult
than a Tuesday. No more heartbreaking
than two weeks ago when
my son did not chastise me
for not clicking my heels
before I pulled my snowy feet into the car.
Firsts are hard, people say.
But, sometimes, I notice,
it’s the second that’s harder.
Or the third. Or it’s just all hard.
Or, miraculously, it’s not hard at all.
I am learning to translate
anything anyone says as,
I am holding your heart in mine.
I am learning to meet every day
as a holy day full of sacrifice,
grace and invitation. I am learning
grief is so different for each of us—
sometimes showing up as closed sign
at the door of the inn. Sometimes
showing up as an angel with a message
we can barely understand. Sometimes
showing up as a king with a strange
and fragrant gift reminiscent of sorrowing,
sighing—though it’s woody and warm,
and feels important, perhaps, even wondrous.
One Inner Bonfire
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bonfire, light, night, solstice on December 21, 2021| 6 Comments »
they invite
new ways of making light—
these longest nights
When Living on a Tiny Island
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dream, fire, island, letting go on December 20, 2021| 11 Comments »
It was a dream, but I tell you
everything was on fire in the house—
I knew the whole island would burn,
and I had to choose what to take
and I ran past the old records
and thought, I have those songs in me,
and I ran past the books
and thought, I have those stories,
and I ran past the photos
and thought, those memories
are already with me,
so I ran, chased by flames,
toward the ocean
with the only thing
I can really carry, this buoyant love,
and I dove in, hands empty,
able to cup the water
and pull through the tide.
The salt water lifted me,
whispered in waves: letting go
is what keeps you alive
*
Hi friends, sorry the poem is late! We had no internet last night. Happy almost solstice–I have never been so ready for the light.
Love, Rosemerry
Watching My Daughter in The Nutcracker
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ballet, dance, dark, daughter, light, smile on December 19, 2021| 10 Comments »
Tonight I fall in love with the mirliton
in the blue and white tutu—the way
she leaps, the way she angles her arm.
Not that I didn’t love her before
when she was a soldier, when she
was a snowflake, when she was a bon bon
or an angel in frothy white fluff. But tonight,
more than anything, it is her smile
that makes me weep in row H.
Because it is real, her joy in the chassé,
the grande jeté, the pas de bourrée.
Because her joy is my joy. Because
I know what she’s danced through
to get to this stage where that smile
spreads across her face like the sunrise
the first morning after winter solstice—
an essential, growing light aware of the dark,
just learning what it can do.
To Everyone Who Has Offered Me Support This Year
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratitude, kazakhstan, light, sun, thank you on December 18, 2021| 16 Comments »
Let’s say we gathered on the street tomorrow,
and let’s say we met in Kazakhstan
on a windy day near the Caspian Shore,
then I would say to you, as the Kazakhs do,
I see the sun on your back.
It means, Thank you for being you.
It means, I am alive because of your help.
Then I would ask to hug you and probably cry
because it’s everything, what you’ve done for me.
And as you walk away, I would marvel
at the radiance beaming from between your shoulders,
shining down your spine. It’s been so dark, and oh,
how you’ve carried me with your light.
Dear Friends,
In the past four months, I have felt so supported, loved, blessed, encouraged. Thank you. For any way, big or small, that you supported me and my family–sending cards, lighting candles, saying prayers, reaching out to others who are struggling, and so many other beautiful gestures–I thank you. This poem is for you.
Love,
Rosemerry
PS: This is the website I stumbled on which is a fun source for international idioms such as the one in this poem.
The Strange Glasses of Grief
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged flower, grief, orchid, plant, seeing on December 17, 2021| 4 Comments »
The orchid on the mantle
dropped a flower today.
Only one white flower now
on the tall twin stems,
it’s petals more droop than bloom.
But how did I not notice
both spikes have grown
new three-inch stems
with clusters of new buds
growing from them?
How often do I focus
on what’s dying and dead
instead of seeing what’s
thriving and madly alive?
Even though I was taking care
of this orchid every day,
I managed not to see.
World, I am wanting
to take off my blinders.
World, please keep teaching me.
Looking at the Photo from Twelve Years Ago
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, love, mother, photo, son on December 15, 2021| 8 Comments »
Tonight I stare at the photo
of you and me and the cat
and the wooden train tracks
and I can’t stop marveling how
your head angles so neatly
into my shoulder, how my
body angles so easily into
yours. And I see how, even
now, after you’re gone,
I am still angling toward you,
my whole self somehow
defined by the space
where you’ve been. Today,
someone asked if it
was too hard to think
of the happy memories.
No. I love them. And I love,
impossibly, the hardest
of memories, too. It is
so easy now to love
the all of you. Remember
how many times we built
those wooden tracks?
And then pulled them apart,
only to build them again?
What isn’t a teacher for love?
Even then we were learning
about dead ends. Even then
we were learning how things
circle, how things change.
Cutting Down the Christmas Tree
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, grief, loss, warmth on December 15, 2021| 8 Comments »
Every step through the deep snow
of the field, I noticed your footprints
not there beside your dad’s, your sister’s
and mine. I noticed the silence
when no one argued about which tree
was best. I noticed the hands
that didn’t hold the saw, the arms
that didn’t carry the tree. I think
you’d like to know we laughed
as the snow sifted from the high branches
and down our necks. And we chose
the most beautiful spruce. Tall.
It would have been about as old
as you. I wore your coat—the blue
with the orange lining. It kept me
warm. Though the shade was deep.
Though the cold reached in. Though
I knew it wasn’t really you warming me.
But it was.
Revival
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, life, Mirabai Starr, mother, son on December 14, 2021| 12 Comments »
The day your son died, the person you were died, too.
—Mirabai Starr
Death came to her
as a blue sky day,
as a feral scream,
as an ambulance
with no need
for its siren.
Death came to her
saying, “Ma’am,
you don’t want
to see your son
this way.” Death
knew what it
was doing when
it erased everything
she’d thought
about how to meet
a day, when it scraped
her of who
she had been
and left her barren.
It was habit
that made her
brush her teeth,
routine that helped
her drive the car.
But it was life itself
that inspirited
her, slipping
like starlight
into her every
dark cell, life itself
that whispered
to her death-bent heart,
You are not done
yet with your
loving.
*
this poem has been published in ONE ART