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Easter Eve

 

 

 

On the table, a letter to the Easter Bunny—

the girl has written it in blue pen

thanking him for the joy he brings.

 

Beside the letter, two baskets

filled with empty plastic eggs.

So much inside wants to be filled. Or so

 

we believe. Tomorrow morning,

the baskets will be for a moment empty,

the eggs, hidden, ridiculous with candy.

 

Oh the things we use to stave the void!

There is beauty in barrenness—

just outside the window, the world

 

is trying to prove it, the field no longer

steeped in snow, yet not yet verdant

and green. And still it’s lovely, a stark,

 

splendor. though perhaps we need

to recalibrate to see.

Every Easter, she writes, I wake up

 

soooooooooo excited to find the eggs.

I think of the field, how it takes

no belief for it to fill, for it to burgeon.

 

And still it is no less magic. I think

of the girl, her joy in giving the Easter Bunny

her most beautiful egg, how she’s learning

 

the art of emptying. I hope you like it, she writes.

I tell her, I think the Easter Bunny

will cry, tears leaving my eyes, not sure

 

if I feel more empty, more full.

 

 

 

 

 

Hi friends,

 

Here’s a nice local write up about my new book from the Telluride Daily Planet … 

I hope you can make the book launch at Telluride Arts on April 3, 6 p.m.! If not, we’ll raise a cup of tea in your honor.

Rosemerry

 

 

stubbing my toe

the whole foot, the whole world,

becomes toe

One Enormous Gratitude

 

 

my mother began my mornings

by singing to me “it’s going to be

such a lovely day”—

over thirty years later

I still believe her

naked4tea-front

Heart-thawingly honest, deliriously sexy, and compassionate down to the fingertips.                  A book of kindness and bewilderment and delight from one of our best poets.                                           –Teddy Macker, “This World”

 

My new book, Naked for Tea, is just out! It was a finalist for the Able Muse Book Award, and deals with vulnerability, and how with our beautiful broken selves we can fall more deeply in love everyday with the beautiful broken world. And it features a fabulous foreword by Wayne Muller, author of A Life of Being, Having and Doing Enough.

I have three readings/signings set up for now:

April 3, Telluride Arts, Telluride, 6 p.m.
May 21, Cimarron Books, Ridgway, 6:30 p.m.
July 7, Book Bar, Denver, 5 p.m.

You can see the book and purchase it with Pay Pal on my website: https://wordwoman.com/books/naked.htm

If you prefer to pay with a credit card, you can buy it from the publisher’s website: https://www.ablemusepress.com/books/rosemerry-wahtola-trommer-naked-for-tea-poems

And you read about it and hear a podcast on it here: http://www.tellurideinside.com/2018/03/trommers-naked-for-tea-book-launch-at-telluride-arts-43.html

I totally believe in giving poems away—as you know—and I will continue to send you poems every day. AND, I would really appreciate it if you would support this poetry practice by purchasing a book. It would mean a lot to me.

If you want to set up a reading for your organization or a workshop near you, send me a note!

love, Rosemerry

 

 

The sound of your breath is the quietest of songs.

—Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

 

 

Maybe on that day

when we think, I forgot

to sing, that’s when we

realize that all day long

we harmonized with the world

in the quietest of songs—

joined in without any effort,

no striving at all,

and maybe that is the day

when we stop trying

to be heard and start

to notice the song

inside every other song,

the song inside every other being,

how perfectly in tune we are,

how easily we join—no conductor,

no notes, no beat, just one perfect

air. Maybe that’s the day we hear

the metronome of our own

steady heart and say to it,

I will trust you, feel the truth

of the song as it slips

from our lips, then

rushes in to fill us again.

 

 

they said snow—

in the yard, drifts of gray juncos

and heaps of all that isn’t

Just After the Equinox

 

 

 

Out the kitchen window, my daughter

scales the cottonwood tree, winds

her way up the inner branches.

 

Feeling my eyes, she turns to smile at me,

her gaze entered by light.

The tree is bare, the buds in gray hoods,

 

though soon there will be a riot of quivering green.

So much in us still waits to arrive,

though in moments such as this,

 

there are no other moments, only this one

fluttering wild in our breast, not even trying

to balance the emptiness, with our hearts so full.

 

 

One Down by the River

 

 

 

the rocks move

more than we think they do—

after the ice floes,

the mudslides, high water in spring

take note, you stone-like thoughts

 

 

 

If you could come back, I say, as anyone else

in the world—say you just stepped out of time

for a moment and then came back in—would

you come back as yourself or as someone else?

 

We are driving in the dark, but I know from experience

that we have just crossed the Dallas Divide

and there are mountains just south of us, and

Leopard Creek to our left, already slightly swollen with spring.

 

Well, she says, after some consideration, could

I change parts of myself? And I say, No.

You get to come back exactly as yourself.

The car in the oncoming lane forgets to lower its brights.

 

Then I would come back as myself, she says,

and I feel a flood of fragrant joy in her answer,

a perfume that fills the car with the heady

scent of self-awareness. I think of the infinite

 

choices and events that conspired to make her

exactly this girl who in this exact moment

chooses to be exactly herself. Except, she says.

I wish I could be better organized.

 

All around us, the world unbraids itself,

melting and charged with mud and change.

All around us, a fine and untamable chaos.

Inside us, the exact person to meet it.

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