Wait a minute, what if this is it?
—John Tarrant
This is it, I think, as I lie in bed, not wanting to leave the warmth.
This is it, my feet meet the cold wood.
This is it, I water the orchid.
This is it, I boil water, make tea.
I think, I’ll be a better person tomorrow.
This is it, me dreaming of fresh starts.
This is it, defuzzing the sweater.
This is it, paying bills, answering mail, frying eggs, washing pans.
No life but this one.
No fresh start but here.
This is it, the cat sits on my papers.
This is it, the phone doesn’t ring.
This is it, the floors need mopping,
the letter needs written, the class needs planned.
This is it, me wishing I could be more perfect.
This is it, this. This only. Only this.
This is it, this flutter in my chest
when the sun enters the room,
the natural leaning toward the light.
This is it, this silence.
This cold. This warmth.
This longing. This song on my lips.
Posts Tagged ‘being present’
Waking Up
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present on January 6, 2023| 12 Comments »
Trough
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, grief, music on November 10, 2021| 8 Comments »
There will be more
swells of grief that tug
me into their gray embrace,
and swirls of lament,
and great rollers of loss,
and rising waves of ache.
But for now,
the morning sun
slips low through the window
in a major key
and the cat finds a home
in my lap and purrs
and the tea in my cup
is warm and full of bright notes
and I’m here, in this
peace, in this sunlit
octave, I’m here.
The Diagnosis
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, death, doctor, life, poem, poetry on January 5, 2019| 3 Comments »
Well, he said, I’ve seen it before.
You have all the symptoms.
Fairly common, actually.
You have life. It’s terminal.
I will give you, oh, about
forty years to live. Some people
really pull through, make the most
out of what they have left.
As he walked away, I listened
to his footsteps until all I could hear
was the sound of my own breathing.
God, it was beautiful, a tide, a river.
And that plant in the corner, have you
ever seen anything so delicate, so green?
Big Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, poem, poetry, singing on February 15, 2017| 2 Comments »
You’ve Felt It Too, Right?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aliveness, being present, poem, poetry on August 29, 2015| 1 Comment »
Some mornings, for no reason,
the world is newer. The color
of the grass, the scent of last night’s rain,
the feel of the lover’s skin.
Everything feels charged
and abuzz with itself.
You might say, and
I would not argue,
that the world and everything in it
is another day older.
Yes, of course, and there
is also this: the taste of this peach—
I have tasted peaches before—
but this one is so very peach,
so remarkably peach,
like something I have known
only very, very new.
Can You Hear Them?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, anticipation, being present, poem, poetry, waiting on January 9, 2014| 1 Comment »
The snow begins
then stops to fall.
In the alley, brown
tracks run against the white.
The gray folds through the air
and unfolds. Nothing
about this day seems
capable of settling in.
It is a like a woman
thinking about what
she wants. The blossoms
of her thoughts open
like roses in fast forward.
They wilt and dry in similar
fashion. They are out of season.
This does not stop them.
Sometimes we like to think
we are waiting. Waiting
for something marvelous to happen,
or waiting for an ache to disappear,
or waiting for gray to be
something other than gray.
And sometimes we see what
a gift it is, this indecisive day,
this watching imaginary blooms
that seem so real you can almost
smell the red perfume, almost.
Outside the window,
it is snowing again. No,
not snowing. But the gray
it has settled in and now
the dirty tracks look
like empty staves and anyone
listening might hear through the glass
how the birds don’t wait
to fill in the space with song.
How Things Change
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, going back, path, poem, poetry on November 27, 2013| 2 Comments »
Useless the trail
I thought would take me back—
the crumbs are still there
but I no longer believe
in going back
Vivian Learns Present Progressive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, daughter, language acquisition, mothering, verb tenses on May 13, 2013| 1 Comment »
Vivian Learns Present Progressive
Finn says to me yesterday, on Mother’s Day, “Mom, when is kid’s day?” My husband replied, “Everyday.” So in that spirit of the ongoing celebration of our children–how they teach us and undo us–here’s a poem published today in the beautiful Journey of the Heart blog.
Entering the Labyrinth
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, fear, labyrinth, life, poem, poetry on October 11, 2012| 2 Comments »
They’re higher than I would have thought,
these walls, and colder, too, the sunlight
only reaching the top of the maze. But I
have my thread and a crust of rye bread.
I am shuddering sooner than I’d imagined I would,
only six turns in. The sword is too heavy to carry.
I turn to the walls themselves, and say to them
what I have rehearsed to say to the minotaur:
What do you have to teach me?
Already it is unclear why I am here. Was I chosen?
Did I choose this? The walls say nothing at all.
They say, What does it matter why? You are here.
I drop the thread, eat the bread, lean the sword
against the wall and sing whatever tune
comes. The song ricochets in the narrow halls
and rises out of the maze toward the sky. I can see
it is blue. I can smell the wild roses that just this week
came into bloom, and though they are not in here,
they’re here. I ask the roses, what do you have
to teach me? They say nothing. They say,
it is not how to die, it’s how to be alive.
The minotaur, I hear his snarl. Part of me favors
to crouch. Part of me tucks the pink scent into my hair.
Chance
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, being present, love, poems, poetry, relationships, time on April 17, 2012| 2 Comments »
I cannot make
the flowers bloom
any faster
than they are,
but I can
right now
bend
my knees
beside the barren
lilac bush
and notice
how it, too,
is beautiful,
all spindle and gnarl,
its branches not
too small, too big,
can choose
to praise
those tight,
gray fists of buds
for being so tight,
so gray.