One summer’s evening, when a woman was sitting
with friends at a table in a fine establishment,
her daughter announced it was the one hundredth
anniversary of Winnie-the-Pooh. “Well, Hallo,”
said the woman, as she remembered how oftenishly
she and her son would play a game in which
they would guess at what character a person would be
if they lived in the Hundred Acre Wood, so,
scratching her ear in shy sort of way,
she suggested they play such a game.
One woman at the table, being a good adventurer
and liking to stay at the edge of the action,
knew at once she would be Christopher Robin.
Another was mostly Tigger with a dusting of Eeyore
and a share of Piglet-ish nervousness. And the woman,
who had long known she was part Tigger and part Rabbit,
seeing as how she was both exuberant and rather fond
of control, was not keen to discover that perhaps
she was also a bit of Owl, somewhat of a know it all
who is most likely wrong, especially, as it turns out,
about which character her daughter might pick
for herself, which made it Awkward when the woman’s
inner Rabbit took notes and scoffed, and her inner Owl
went on believing it knew best. But her inner
Friendly Tigger soon felt Bouncy and Boffish again,
just enjoying the night. “Perhaps we all have a bit
of all the characters in us,” one woman suggested.
Such a Pooh thing to say. And the evening went on quite right.
Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
In Which The Woman Telling the Story Discovers Something of Who She Is
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged community, control, exuberance, identity, Winnie-the-Pooh on August 21, 2026| 15 Comments »
Real Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged anniversary, love, marriage on August 20, 2026| 13 Comments »
for Mom and Dad on their anniversary
Mostly I remember them holding hands.
Not swinging over rivers filled with crocodiles.
Not passionately kissing on the edge of a canyon.
Not jumping from planes, though they did scuba dive.
I remember them peeling and chopping
thirty pounds of carrots they bought bulk
so they can freeze them. I remember them
cleaning the boat. I remember them stopping
for rummage sale signs on Saturdays and sitting
in the back row of the church on Sundays
and sitting on the couch holding hands
on most days. And even so Dad isn’t here
today on their anniversary, he is here.
I remember how they shaped each other with their love
in an everyday way, year after year after year,
then offered that love to me, to the world.
The Night Before the Big Decision
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged athena, butterfly effect, choices, decision, food, goddess, odyssey on August 19, 2026| 2 Comments »
There is the moment when the woman
is deciding what to make for dinner—
a tofu curry with beet greens from the garden?
Or maybe guacamole with all those avocados
she bought on sale. When she reaches
for the greens, that’s the kind of moment
when a Greek goddess doesn’t appear beside her
and shake her head as if everything depends
on the woman choosing the guac.
Something wonderful about a choice
with so little consequence. Red socks or blue?
The low green vase or the clear vase from Finland?
The woman has read about the butterfly effect,
trusts a life—in fact all of civilization—is built
on every smallest choice and inaction.
But tonight there is peace in the way she presses
water from the tofu, then slides the white cubes
into the pan. Six seven, as the kids would say.
The scent of turmeric fills the room.
If a goddess were to show up, she’d probably
just ask for a glass of sauv blanc and join
the woman for a bowl of curry. They would
sit at the kitchen table for hours, laughing
as the cats chase each other across the room,
talking about the three-hour movie they just saw.
Tomorrow, the choice. But tonight,
the goddess nods at the sunflowers on the table.
“I like your low green vase,” she says.
The Fall
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged sonnet, time on August 18, 2026| 14 Comments »
There is a slip of time before the foot
missteps and twists and breaks, that moment when
the bone’s still whole, the woman still upright.
And from that slip, well, then there’s only after.
After, when the bone is cast. After,
when the child has left. After, when
the callous words can’t be unsaid, the missing
ring can’t be unlost, the train can never
be unmissed. And now, and now, and now
is both before and after and a tip-
ping point on which we cannot pause or stand.
But if we did trip off the tip of time,
what would we find beneath it all? A chance
to play in the infinite? Or would we simply fall and fall and fall?
One in the Garden
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aging, dahlia, garden on August 18, 2026| 4 Comments »
so soon the pink dahlia petals
begin to shrivel and dry,
and look at these hands
that cut away what is dead,
they, too, are dahlia
Memento Mori While Watching the String Quartet
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged chamber music, memento mori, mortality on August 16, 2026| 13 Comments »
The way the cellist smiled at the first violinist,
that is the way I want to smile when I die,
a joyful smile that says, “I am all in on this song;
and here, let me now toss the melody to you.”
The Future Writes to Rosemerry
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged epistle, future, letter on August 15, 2026| 4 Comments »
I know I like to keep my secrets close. It’s who I am.
That doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Doesn’t mean
I don’t appreciate it when you plant larkspur
and roses, lavender bushes and apricot trees,
as if you believe in investing in a world years from now.
Of course, I appreciate the way you call your congressmen
to tell them about the world you believe we could live in.
I love every time you put a letter in the mail with a stamp,
every time you learn a new skill or make a ten-year-plan.
How beautiful you are to me when you dream.
It’s lonely here, of course. Everyone always coming toward
but never arriving. I’m not complaining.
Being the future has its perks. Like infinite potential.
Like hope. I know it’s hard sometimes to believe
you will ever get through this. But haven’t you learned by now
that just because you don’t see the way forward
doesn’t mean they way doesn’t exist?
That is the only promise I can make you, sweetheart.
You can’t see the path. But here it is.
Because Today Vulnerable Feels Alive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, hiking, rain, vulnerability on August 15, 2026| 4 Comments »
It felt so good to walk in the rain,
to walk in the rain and not put
on the raincoat I’d carried for
over ten miles, to not put on
the raincoat and let the rain
soak into my sleeves, my
shoes, my thoughts, my
words, let rain soak in
and realize with each
squishy step each
soggy word what
a gift it is to not
always protect
myself from
the world.
Five Years Ago
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, grief, mother, past, son, suicide on August 13, 2026| 28 Comments »
Everyone else has gone to bed.
A boy and his mother sit
at the table in the house
they are renting for a few
more days. They are familiar
the way my eyes are familiar.
He sees a large cockroach
climbing the wall, and when
his mom squeals, he gets up,
grabs it, throws it to the ground
with youthful efficiency,
then smiles at his mother,
a tender smile that says,
I like taking care of you, mom.
But the boy is not happy.
Soon he is crying. His eyes
are empty, colorless, black.
Then it is only the mother
sitting at the table, her
empty hands full of fear,
uncertainty, lack. Why
do I return to this moment,
knowing I cannot change
what happens the next day?
The closet. The gun. The choice.
I go back to slip my hands beneath
the mother’s empty hands,
making for them a nest,
then sneak up the stairs to the boy
in his room in his bed in his pain,
and though I know it will not change
a thing, I whisper in his ear,
there is nothing you can do
that will keep me from loving you.
A Surprising Wholeness
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birds, dance, paradox, rain, sun, swallows, wholeness on August 12, 2026| 10 Comments »
Cool rain is falling through sunshine today
and the canyon’s red walls are radiant
with the contradiction. The world
smells of dry earth mixing with sky,
a rich and generative perfume
that weaves into all that grows.
Witnessing the beauty of this day,
equal parts clear and stormy,
this is how a person might come to trust
the acute aliveness we feel
when we dance with both sorrow
and gladness at the same time,
one partner asking us to crawl, to bow,
the other bidding us raise our arms
to twirl in joyful abandon. In the distance,
thunder. In the foreground, the swallows
are ceaseless in their swirling.
They do not try to avoid the raindrops
nor do they shun the sun.
On the inside, a feeling loops and dives,
swoops and circles back. It says,
This life is not easy. What a gift to be alive.
In the Noticing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged absence, connection, death on August 11, 2026| 10 Comments »
Quiet as a rabbit
nibbling on grass,
obvious as a flicker
knocking on a tree,
surprising as a white feather
landing on my tights,
again and again,
you appear, or more truly,
again and again,
I see what has
always been here—
you in everything,
your absence
throbbing with life.
Coming Soon!!
Posted in Uncategorized on August 10, 2026| Leave a Comment »
It’s almost here! On September 8, my newest book will be released! You can join me for a pre-release party hosted on zoom by Kayleen Asbo on Saturday, August 29, 6-7:30 p.m. mountain time. Donations accepted. Recorded.
You can pre-order the book from my local bookstore, Between the Covers, and I will personalize it for you (there’s a comments section at the final checkout for you to say who you want the book signed to). Order before September 12 when I go in to sign the books. The bookstore will ship your book to anywhere in the US the next day.
And European friends, you can also join me for a special European zoom launch with The Poetry Pharmacy on September 24 at 6 p.m. in the UK (11 a.m. mountain time) Tickets available with or without a book purchase.
A Gathering of Strangers in the High San Juans
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged community, connection, landscape, mountains, surface, transformation on August 10, 2026| 4 Comments »
When we met,
we had no idea
how we all, like
this land, carry
inside us
the memory
of volcano
and glacier.
How easily we
can be fooled
by the present
landscape,
calm and serene.
Just because
there are spruce
here now and
gentle streams
doesn’t mean
there wasn’t once
a violent explosion
of fire and ash,
a long and cold
scraping of ice.
Here in the aftermath
of upheaval,
in this ongoing story
of transformation,
I see how our hearts
have been carved wide
as this high alpine
basin, and even
in the places where
nothing yet grows,
my god, it’s
so beautiful.
One Mirroring
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aloneness, togetherness on August 9, 2026| 1 Comment »
We are in it together,
this certainty we are alone.
After Years of Rushing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged clarity, fen, river, stillness on August 9, 2026| 2 Comments »
Today
more fen
than stream,
I draw
my source
from depths
unseen.
No need
to move,
how still,
how clear
am
I.
At High Camp Hut
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged constellations, galaxy, high camp, hot tub, women on August 9, 2026| 4 Comments »
for Lacy, Ellen, Jessi Lu and Lisa
In the darkness, Lacy points us toward two stars
stacked in a vertical line just above the horizon.
She teaches us to see the parallelogram
of a celestial teapot, then guides us
to find the spout which empties out
into the very center of our galaxy.
Naked, we stare at the distant milky glow
and know in our bones the center is not,
in fact, light years away, but right here
in our wood-fired hot tub in the middle
of a meadow with mountains all around.
Or wherever women commune, says Jessi Lu.
Yes, this is the tea cup right here, a cup
overflowing with laughter, tears, stories,
heart, and an ancient swirl of glittering stars.
Re-Seeing (and gone for a few days)
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hand, seeing on August 5, 2026| 11 Comments »
Re-Seeing
This morning I saw my hand and marveled—
the smoothness of the finger pads
like sandstone eroded by centuries of wind,
the wrinkled cords between the pointer
and the thumb like cottonwood roots rising
out of the ground, the fine wrinkles in the knuckles
like thin braided strands of spider silk,
the splotchy spots of white below the plush heel,
like small puffs of morning clouds in the desert.
This hand that has held weeping children
and planted beets, scraped cat vomit from the carpet
and carried river stones to build a home. I stared
at this hand I have known my whole life and wept
for the sheer miracle of hand, how even the most
familiar, intimate parts of ourselves, the parts we take
most for granted, have the most to teach us about
gratefulness, about how to see and meet the world.
—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
*
Hey friends, I will be away for four days, teaching remotely in the glorious San Juans at High Camp Hut with no cell, no wifi, and lots of spaciousness. I’ll be back with poems on Sunday night. In the meantime, if you are jonesing for poems, you can find them on my blog (a backlog of poems from the last 12 years or so): A Hundred Falling Veils.
Or, you can subscribe to the Ritual app on your phone and there I read a poem every day (twice!) and offer ways to think about it and also optional writing invitations. You can find that on your phone here (there is a small fee to subscribe): The Poetic Path
The Teacher
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cantaloupe, comparison, enough, fruit, grandmother, presence, showing up on August 4, 2026| 21 Comments »
The cantaloupe was golden
beneath its raised veins,
the globe of it heavy in my hands,
its musky perfume filling the hot
summer air at the farmstand.
When I handed the woman my money,
I was paying her not so much for this melon,
but for the memory of other melons
we have shared when I moaned my delight,
the sweet orange flesh deliquescing
in our eager mouths.
This melon was no such melon.
Though we waited and waited,
when I sliced in and offered you a bite,
we both agreed the flesh was a bit too hard,
the flavor sweet but a little flat.
A fine-enough melon. But not a melon
for rhapsodizing or writing an ode.
I think of Grandma Betty, how
in her later years it didn’t matter
what you served her, she would always declare,
This is the best pie I ever had.
This is the best tea I’ve ever had.
This is the best. The best.
This is not the best cantaloupe I have ever had,
just a substandard stand in for ecstasy. Yet here I am
writing an ode to this mediocre melon, learning again
how my longing for something to be different from what it is
can destroy any joy found in what is here.
Somehow, this fine-enough melon is bringing me to my knees
at the altar of the moment, humbling me, inviting me to question
how I choose to meet the world.
It is, perhaps, after all, the best melon I have ever had.
Fledgling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged absence, college, daughter, graduation, heartbreak, letting go, mother on August 3, 2026| 11 Comments »
Now that I know for certain she will leave me,
I dare to love her more. Her room will be empty.
The house no longer filled with her music.
The spilling trills of her laughter too far away to hear.
I have known since her birth she would leave me,
but knowing is different from feeling, and her absence
comes so soon. At the same time the heart lets her go,
lets her go, lets her go, it leans in closer, becomes a sanctuary
that knows no walls, a nest as wide as the world.
At the same time I release her, I fall more deeply in love
with the way she croons to her cat, with the feathery softness
of her skin, with how a song is ever winging from her lips.
I welcome it, this ache. These tears were always meant
to be cried. This heart was always meant to break.