After I did not die the first minute,
I lived the next minute.
More truly, life lived me.
More truly, the thick air,
infused with lake scent and
rosemary and late summer
insisted I breathe. More
that the sun did not let me
not see my beloveds still here.
The thick green leaves
of August reminded me
life pushes through.
There was not a half second
I forgot the horror.
And still I did not die.
After I lived the first day,
I lived the next day,
opened the door and
drove the car and held close
the people I love.
Rain fell and a rainbow
bloomed and the night
was sleepless and long.
And longer. I lived the next week.
The next. The next.
I lived the next year.
And the next. More truly,
the same life that lives
through mushroom, tulip,
magpie, worm, eagle, you,
that same life keeps living me.
The horror, no less real.
And love continues to sprout
like new trees after fire.
Slow, and indisputable. A gift.
What seemed gone is still here.
The way light and dark and
air are still here. Another
day. Another year.
Archive for February, 2024
Still Here
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, healing, survival on February 11, 2024| 18 Comments »
In Art Class Making Aspen Trees
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Art, aspen, fixing, healing, painting on February 10, 2024| 12 Comments »
for Kellie Day
Everything is fixable,
said Kellie, as she
sprayed her painting
with water, then
held the canvas
on its side until
white paint streaked
across her forest, and
for six hours I lived
in that fixable world
of paint and paper
and brushes and
stencils, a world
of improvisation
and play, a world
where I wandered
in pale green and
deep blue, where
I trusted a glade
of my own making,
rested in that shade
where there were
no problems, just
new invitations to
reimagine what
might happen next,
and smudges became
birds, and tears became
trees, and my sorrow
became an aspen
grove where nothing
was fixed, but for six
sacred hours there
was nothing the
light couldn’t touch.
Song of the Spool
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, letting go, parenting, spool, usefulness, yarn on February 8, 2024| 4 Comments »
for Vivian
I want to love you
the way the spool
loves the yarn.
For a time, the spool
gives the yarn shape
before the yarn becomes
its own beautiful form—
a sweater, a sock, a blanket,
something warm,
perhaps soft.
No one thinks then
of the work of the spool.
There is a part of me,
who does not want
to be forgotten.
But I know what it’s like
to be close to you,
wrapped in you,
then slowly spun out
as I let you go.
There’s more joy
in being useful
than I could have known,
bittersweet joy in the unwinding,
true joy in watching you
become more yourself,
true joy in watching you grow.
When Bruce Told Me He’d Brought You Your Hearing Aids
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged healing, hearing, love, stroke on February 7, 2024| 15 Comments »
I thought, good, he can hear what the ICU nurses say.
Then I began to wish for another kind of hearing—
wished you could hear the faithful pumping
of your own loyal heart. Wished you could hear
the snow as it fell outside your window reminding you
of the silence beyond the beeps and alarms
of the hospital room. Wished you could hear
the hundreds of prayers being raised
and chanted for you. Wished you could hear my voice
as I whisper into the candle beside me
saying again and again your name, your name,
wished you could hear all the love rising for you
the way dawn rises, inevitable and beautiful,
the way sorrow gives rise to song.
You Ask How I Got These Scars
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged addiction, choices, fire, self-wounding on February 6, 2024| 7 Comments »
Standing too close to the fire—
not that I wanted to be burned,
just that it felt so good to be hot,
even when it was too much,
even when it was way too much
The Crown
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, grief, head on February 5, 2024| 2 Comments »
Tonight I miss the top of your head—
the way it fit beneath my chin
when you sat on my lap to find Waldo.
I miss the three cowlicks that swirled there,
how they made your hair bounce
with every step—a challenge
for every haircutter we ever met.
I miss the smell of your head,
a place I would again and again
and again sniff. And the way
you tucked your head into my neck
when we’d snuggle in your bed
before sleep. I miss the way
I could no longer see the top of your head
when you grew so much taller than I.
And the silken dark gold of your hair,
how it slipped through my fingers
like something I was still learning to value.
How simple it is, how primal, this love.
And today, this—the ghost
of the top of your head
as I don’t see it bobbing slightly above
the sea of other heads.
The Partners
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dance, long marriage, love, marriage, partnership on February 4, 2024| 10 Comments »
After thirty years, she knows
he will speak with his mouth full.
He knows her stomach will gurgle
in the silence before they sleep.
He will set the table.
She will water the plants.
He will wash the windows.
She will dust the piano.
After thirty years, she still thrills
when he sits close on the couch
and rests his head on her shoulder,
then sighs aloud and closes his eyes.
She loves when the moment lasts.
In the mornings, he will look at the clouds
and tell her the direction of the wind,
what it means about the storm.
She will walk up to him with open arms
and hold him there, in the middle
of the kitchen. There will be no music.
It may look as if they are standing still,
but it’s part of a long and intricate dance,
a dance they are still learning,
a dance no one else can teach them.
See how they step back, how they spin,
how they step in toward each other again.
On My Sleeve, the Smallest White Feather
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged feather, life afer death, sign on February 4, 2024| 19 Comments »
I never saw them before you died.
Now I find them in the sidewalk,
in the forest, in my hair,
on the seat in a restaurant—
white feathers might show up anywhere.
Part of me says, Be rational.
Part of me falls into the sweetness
of how it feels, as if you’ve found a way
to find me from wherever you are,
and offer me feathers,
as if you’re trying to touch me,
as if you’re suggesting I could fly.
One Inner Weather
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book, reading, storm, weather on February 3, 2024| Leave a Comment »
while I didn’t look up
from the storm in my book
the whole yard filled with snow
New Eyes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, paradox, perspective, sadness on February 2, 2024| 4 Comments »
But I’m sad, I said.
And the world
was unrelentingly
filled with good.
Weaving into the ache
and loss and dread
was the moon as it rose
in fuzzy white gauze,
luminous behind thin clouds.
Was the woman
who made of her body a circle
to embrace with her love my pain.
Was the laugh of my girl
in the other room.
Was the paperwhite
blooming on the kitchen counter
like an intimate constellation.
But I’m sad, I said,
and the world did not try
to convince me my sadness
was not also true.
And I felt myself open
like a daffodil in spring,
grateful to be touched
by sun, by chill. And
I felt myself open,
naked as a winter tree,
tender as a woman
just learning to see
how everything invites us
to meet what is holy.