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?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, poem, poetry, singing on February 15, 2017| 2 Comments »
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, cairns, clarity, obstacles, path, poem, rocks, the way on December 20, 2011| 3 Comments »
Perhaps
these rocks
that look
like stumb-
ling blocks
are cairns,
and I
have, with
such diligence,
been kicking
them from
my way—
oh foolish
woman
who thought
that she
was lost.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, clock, now, poem, time on December 15, 2011| 4 Comments »
The watchmaker burns
the plans she’d drawn
and winds the blood
of her own clock. Drip.
Drop. She is delinquent.
She is crow. The only time
she tocks is now.
