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Posts Tagged ‘friendship’

Winter Evening

Though I sit alone

on my couch at home,

I’m somehow also sitting

with Rachel and Julie

and it’s summer and

we’re laughing, laughing

until we tumble

into each other’s laps,

laughing as we collapse

into a puppy pile of giggles,

laughing because it feels

so good to laugh—

even now I laugh aloud

with no memory of why

we were laughing then,

but many years later,

it’s still contagious.

Sometimes we tumble

so wholly into the grace

of a moment

that it opens in us forever,

continuously blooms

and spreads its perfume

like night-blooming jasmine,

christens everything

with its fragrance,

even this empty room,

even this tired woman

now so surprisingly awake.

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Learner

Just because I don’t see the edge

doesn’t mean the edge isn’t there.

Walking with Amy through the scrub oak woods,

I had no idea that just to my right

was a deep canyon. I could have walked on for miles

believing the world was flat

if she hadn’t suggested we walk off the trail

to see the gaping chasm.

It wasn’t that she was trying to teach me,

she was just doing what she does—

straying from the path to see what else is there.

Now I am looking everywhere for edges—

in every conversation, in every thought.

Now, I am looking at everyone as a teacher.

I have no idea what they see that I don’t.

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Conspiracy

Sometimes when walking

or driving or sitting in a chair,

I thrill to see some words of yours

float through the air—as if

a cartoon thought bubble

cut loose from your thoughts

filled with calibri sweetnesses

and times-new-roman puns—

and I pluck the words

from the sky and wrap them

around my wrist. They bob

above me like a helium balloon—

sometimes I almost believe

could carry me away.

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Just in Case

As a girl, I walked with twenty pennies

in my shoe. A penny in your shoe

was good luck, I’d heard,

and with each added penny

found on the sidewalk, I felt luckier.

The bottoms of my feet, of course, turned green.

And sometimes when I’d dangle my shoe from a toe,

it sounded like a child was shaking a piggy bank.

But dang, I was lucky. I believed it.

I don’t walk with pennies anymore,

and I don’t really believe in luck

but if I could give you some pennies tonight

to put in your boots, I would.

And an upturned horse shoe.

A kick-ass horoscope.

A candle to blow out and make a wish—

and the beautiful darkness after—

and a match to light the candle again

to make another wish. And another.

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            (title after a first line by e.e. cummings)

when you with your nimble

and radiant thoughts

reach into the junkyard of my mind

and there—hiding behind

some old rusty shoulds

and burnt-out what ifs—

you find a small tarnished scrap

of lost perhaps and hold it up

like a treasure, burnish it

with fierce devotion

until even I can see

how it shines.

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You Belong Here

            for SRB

You belong here—

here in the world

of wonder and fear,

of Zumba and street fights,

of pink hats and protests.

You belong here

with your questions,

your anger, your trust,

your voluptuous cursive,

your stubborn tears,

you belong here.

With your fine darkness,

your involuntary shine,

your shuttered faith

and your reckless love,

your uncertainty,

you belong here—

in the alleys, the rooms,

in the meadows, the halls,

in the sacred cathedral

of your body.

Whether or not

you asked to be here,

whether or not

you feel wanted here

here is where you belong.

It is for you the moment arrives,

wondering what comes next.

It is for you the next breath

finds your body and fills you,

it’s for you, this day, you

right here where you belong.

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Down by the river we sit and talk.

When I think I can’t ache any more,

the world serves more heartache.

And I meet it.

I say no, but I feel myself stretched

by some great invisible hand,

rendering me spacious enough to hold

what must be held.

When we rise to leave,

the river doesn’t stop.

Nor does the forgiving wind.

I swear I feel them move

right through me.

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We speak the way old friends speak—

knowing each other’s stories,

the nuances and undertones.

She always knows just what to ask,

just how to nudge me toward

quiet revelation. I don’t do my best

to hide. In fact, it is easy

to speak of my brokenness.

We pause in a field

where the forest has been felled

in an avalanche—

the slender white trunks are strewn

in a chaotic jumble—

but oh, how clear the view.

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for C, A, A, A and J

 

 

I want to share with you a trail with no map

and the clean scent of spruce and a clear Colorado sky.

I want to spend an afternoon above tree line

in a field of corn lilies and alpine buttercups

the pica chirping brightly in the rockfall.

Let’s not find the lake we were looking for.

Let’s stop where our feet say stop.

I want to share a leap and a shimmy,

a chocolate cookie, the mighty salt of love.

I want to slide down snowfields on our raincoats,

to find more paths to take another day,

to wade through the cold rush of change.

I want to take a bolt cutter to any door

that won’t let us in, to let the ears of my heart

attune to your words, to lose our hats to the wind

and find them again. And as the night

fills the room, I want to sing as the guitar

of friendship finds a new tune. I want to hear it

play on long after the day has gone.

 

 

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Ravenous

Perhaps I was already full

when Danny offered me

a sweet potato pancake

for breakfast, but there

he was with a bowl

of homemade batter

and a cast iron frying pan

hot on the stove, and so

I did what I longed to do,

I said yes, yes to feeding

a hunger that has little

to do with food—

the hunger for someone else

to offer you something

they’ve made, the joy of sharing

a meal together, the honor

of being served. The fact

that the pancake was delicious—

both sweet and hot—

was a bonus. The salsa

he handed me fiery—

fantastic as long friendship,

fierce as gratitude, as love.

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