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Posts Tagged ‘friendship’

To the Person in the Red Station Wagon

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 11, 2019| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

I was so excited to drop the impromptu Valentine

in through the car window—a white heart

with a big blue eye at its center that I’d ripped

into shape from an old magazine cover.

 

It slipped through the open window

and landed just right on the driver’s seat,

the eye facing up, the heart facing the door.

 

Imagine my surprise when my friend Kyra

told me she hadn’t been in town today.

Really? I asked her, stunned. Really, she said.

 

Because who would think there were two

red station wagons in town with the passenger door

bashed in and the back full of camping gear?

 

Dear stranger in the red station wagon who parked in town,

I know I didn’t give you the heart on purpose,

but I’m so glad I did. Sometimes our mistakes

 

have so much to teach us. Now I know

how I want to treat strangers: Like beloved friends.

Like people I thrill to shower with love.

 

 

 

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Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Isn’t Breaking

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on August 7, 2019| 16 Comments »

On Earth, just a teaspoon of neutron star
would weigh six billion tons. Six billion tons
is equivalent to the weight of every animal
on earth. Including the insects. Times three.

Six billion tons sounds impossible
until I consider how it is to swallow grief—
just a teaspoon and one might as well have consumed
a neutron star. How dense it is,
how it carries inside it the memory of collapse.
How difficult it is to move then.
How impossible to believe that anything
could lift that weight.

There are many reasons to treat each other
with great tenderness. One is
the sheer miracle that we are here together
on a planet surrounded by dying stars.
One is that we cannot see what
anyone else has swallowed.

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What I Did Not Write in the Card

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on July 30, 2019| 6 Comments »

 

            for S

 

I don’t want you to die.

I know that is selfish,

but it’s the truest thing.

I know we don’t speak of it.

I know I am supposed

to find acceptance,

to find metaphors about

rebirth and letting go—

the trees are always good that way—

but I don’t want to.

I hate that you are hurting.

I hate how far away you are.

You and I both know

that I would never write this

in your card. No, instead,

I send a metaphor about birds,

about resilience and

the gift of wings. Instead,

I tell you I love you.

It’s the other truest thing.

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Sharing Our Hearts in Moffat

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on June 26, 2019| 2 Comments »

 

 

 

Rachel and I walk the dirt track

around and around—there are

goat heads in bloom, and she pauses

to notice how beautiful the small purple

flowers are before they become vicious

and sharp-toothed, hostile and harsh.

How much aggression begins as beauty?

I have no love for the goat heads, but

now, seeing them sprawling and soft,

I can’t help but bow to the paradox

that exists in everything, even these woman

who walk circles in the middle of the desert

just for the joy of walking together. Something

in them has  grown hardened and sharp.

They speak of it and weep and laugh. Something

in them softens into tiny lavender blooms.

 

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Abundance

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on May 9, 2019| 5 Comments »

 

for Sally

 

 

In these days, we don’t speak

of drought, we speak of water—

the impossible blue sea near Phuket

and the wide Colorado River.

We speak of turquoise and green

and aquamarine and you make water

with three hydrogen molecules.

We speak of the bull in India

that stored water on its back.

We speak of drinking black chia seeds

as they did in the desert.

We speak of the coming storm,

of floods, of the deluge,

the way water changes things.

It is no surprise that I think of you

as water—something pure, something

necessary, something true—

and in these days I choose

not to think of drought, I think

of turquoise, green and aquamarine

and wish it for you.

 

 

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If I Can’t Be There

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on May 4, 2019| 2 Comments »

 

 

 

And if you should find yourself

in the parking lot of tears,

then I will knit you a handkerchief

of poems—they won’t stop

the crying, but then you

will never weep alone—

every tear a chance to connect,

every tear a chance

to fall deeper in love.

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One Heroic

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on April 4, 2019| 2 Comments »

 

for Phyllis

 

 

in the long darkness

she makes lanterns of poems

guides us one light at a time

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They Say It’s the Best Bloom in Ten Years

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on March 29, 2019| 6 Comments »

 

 

She wants to go see the bluebonnets, she says.

This is after she tells me they’ve said she has three months to live.

And I want to find her vast fields of bluebonnets,

acres and acres of white-tipped blue bloom.

And I want to send her more springs to see them in,

more days to live one day at a time. I want to remove

the pain in her belly, the pain that aggressively grows.

I want to make deals with the universe. Want to say no

to the way things are. I want to tell death to wait.

I want to tell life to find a way. I want to hug her

until she believes she’s beloved. I want to give her

the pen that will write every brave thing

that she’s been unable to say. There are days

when we feel how uncompromising it is, the truth.

How human we are. There are days when the bluebonnets

stretch as far as the eye can see. There are days

we know nothing is more important than going to see them,

a billion blue petals all nodding in the wind, teaching us to say yes.

 

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Another Lesson in Impermanence

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on March 8, 2019| Leave a Comment »

 

 

A metal table in the sun. Beyond it, winter.

Two women sit, brought here by rambling.

 

One woman weeps, tears of mortality.

The other woman rhymes with her.

 

Everything rhymes eventually, though

neither of them know it yet. The grass.

 

The snow. The dirt. The way the two women lean

into shadows. It’s not that time makes demands,

 

it’s just that the women still see themselves

as separate. They grasp at the present,

 

thinking this makes them a part of it.

Meanwhile, the birds. Meanwhile,

 

the trees. Meanwhile, the cells, changing.

Meanwhile the sun slides down the sky.

 

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Details

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on March 5, 2019| Leave a Comment »

 

 

I fell in love, today, with the black

and blue marker stains on the table

made by the two-year-old boy—

he colored in the circles he’d drawn

with so much enthusiasm that the ink

seeped through the paper

and into the lemon cream paint on the table

where no amount of scrubbing could remove it.

 

It wasn’t so much the stain though, no,

and it wasn’t the color. What I fell in love with

was the way his mother didn’t see

that the table was ruined. She saw

that he did such a fine, precise job,

that he took so much pleasure in the coloring.

And when I apologized for bringing markers

that didn’t easily wash, she looked at me

with so much surrender and said,

“On a day like today,

who could worry about a table?”

 

It was yesterday they found the dog

waiting beside the car.

It was this morning the skier’s body was found

in a massive snow slide.

It was all day, through the stupor of loss,

I fell in love with the shape of empty branches,

the scent of black tea, the sound

of my son’s voice, fell in love

with the grace in the way my friend shrugged

when she saw the table, the way she hugged

her son. She offered me chocolate from London.

We ate the squares slowly. All day the gray edge

of grief made every little thing

more precious, more sweet.

 

 

 

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After Being Given the Assignment to Forgive

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on February 26, 2019| 8 Comments »

 

 

 

It took five days, but at last I thought of you, old friend,

friend I loved and wanted to trust, friend

 

who burned every bridge I tried to build between us,

who turned gratitude and apology to smoke, to ash,

 

who taught me that love is not enough—a lesson

I never wanted to learn, which is why I am grateful

 

you helped me to learn it.

No one gets through life without injury.

 

Still, I wanted to believe that a kiss and forgiveness

could make things better, but some things

 

are better left broken. Thank you for teaching me

that all passes, that even without a road, without

 

a bridge, without a track, the train of time

finds a way to keep moving, eventually

 

speeding by so fast that what seemed

unable to be overcome becomes a blur

 

and that hope gives way to something even

more beautiful: saying yes to what is real.

 

So though you will never know it, I forgive you

for your scissored words and sharpened

 

silences. I forgive you for giving up on love,

for saying no, goodbye. It takes almost no effort now.

 

Even uranium has a half-life—albeit 4.5 billion years.

How much sooner forgiveness has come. More like a lawn

 

that went unwatered and dried to brown, to dust,

but then when seasonal rains returned, turned green.

 

Yes, thriving and lush, here is the new lay of the land,

ready for anyone to arrive. Anyone. Even you.

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One Friendship

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on February 16, 2019| Leave a Comment »

 

for Corinne

 

 

skiing into the blizzard

finding laughter in gusts and drifts

skiing out into sunshine

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The Gift of Themselves

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 24, 2019| 2 Comments »

 

 

 

And when they say, I am going to eat ice cream

until I feel better, perhaps say, What flavor?

 

And when they say, I am going to cry myself to sleep,

perhaps say, May the night hold you as you cry.

 

What is it in us that wants to say, Don’t cry?

And since when has trying to stop the tears worked, anyway?

 

My teacher speaks of the greatest gift:

to give a person themselves.

 

I think of when I told my friend I did not feel beautiful.

She did not rush to argue with me.

 

She let me outline my reasons.

She hummed in soft agreement.

 

Her nods nourished me like a clear lake.

I threw my stones of self-doubt in its waters till it stilled.

 

So when they say, I feel terrible, perhaps say,

Yes, it is a difficult day. Perhaps add a knowing hum.

 

Add a nod. A hug if they want it.

And give them their own words,

 

how they shine like daylight,

bright enough they see, perfectly, themselves.

 

 

 

 

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Secret Agents

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on January 23, 2019| 5 Comments »

 

 

for Sherry Richert Belul

 

 

With a LOVE stamp, the woman I’ve never met

mailed me five dollars, “to be a reminder

that abundance can come unexpectedly,”

 

she wrote, and sitting with her letter in my lap,

I thought of last night’s snow—

five white inches that fell after midnight

 

and softened the whole hard world.

And I thought of the orchid on my mantle

that sprouted a new stem of purple buds

 

even as the other stem continued to bloom.

And I thought of my office mate bringing in

nine tins of exotic teas to share. And my daughter

 

sending me a text to say she loved me “soooo much.”

And I thought of a woman in a town a thousand

miles away, a woman I have never met,

 

who thought, “I think I’ll send five dollars

to someone who brought abundance into my life.”

How simple it is to manifest unforeseen joy.

 

How clear the invitation to extend gratitude,

to spread good will, to remind each other

how the world will offer itself, will open

 

and open and open, how we, ourselves,

are the agents of the world.

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Luck

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on January 13, 2019| 4 Comments »

 

 

 

It’s like just happening

to find in the drawer

the tiny screw that fits

in my glasses so the lens

won’t fall out, yes,

the fact that any of us

find each other and

happen to fit

into each other’s lives

at all seems shocking

when the drawer’s so big,

and after the discovery

so beautiful, so strange

how we never again

see the world

quite the same.

 

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One Great Respect

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on December 6, 2018| Leave a Comment »

 

for Art

 

sparring with an old friend,

each round, loving

him more deeply

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Let’s Say You Dreamed that You Died

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 12, 2018| 2 Comments »

 

 

Which, they say, is impossible,

but we all know the impossible

happens. If you dreamed

that you died, then I would

slip myself into your dream,

which is also impossible,

but now we’re on a roll

of impossibilities. So while

we’re at it, let’s say that while

I am in your dream, I slip

out of the dream and into

your room, which is really,

really impossible, but

wouldn’t that be cool,

to travel through dreams

into each other’s lives?

And then, once in your room,

I would watch you sleeping

and if you tossed and whimpered,

distressed by your death,

I’d lay my hand on your head

and I’d say, shhh, it’s alright,

You’re safe. I’m here.

And you would settle deeper

into your pillow, and I would

watch over your sleep and hum

a little song about home,

and the moon would hold us,

because this is a poem

in which impossible things happen,

and its long silver arms would

be warm and tender and soft,

and I wouldn’t wake you

in case it means I have to leave

the dream and find myself

unable to tell you you’re safe,

I’m here. I’m here.

 

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To All the People I’ve Hurt Without Knowing It

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on November 5, 2018| 7 Comments »

 

 

 

I watched it happen, the confrontation.

The one who was hurt and the one

with no inkling that harm had been done,

and my heart ached for both of them—

for all of us really—all of us fragile, all of us

witless, all of us longing to love, to be loved

for being ourselves.

 

Outside the window, the leaves

were brilliantly dying, burning auburn,

vermillion, a heart swelling show

of what it is we’ve come here to do—

to give our all and give some more,

to do it unreservedly.

 

It’s all a series of repetition, design—

the leaves, the fall, the hurt, the blame,

the confusion, the reconciliation.

It’s all a matter of pattern and letting

go, letting go of whatever we think we know

about how to give.

 

What I’m trying to say is if I have hurt you,

I’m sorry. I don’t understand my own thorns.

I think I am singing and it comes out crooked.

I think I’m supporting and it comes out cage.

There are so many mistakes in my blood,

all of them believing they’re butterflies.

 

My friend tells me the leaves in fall

are returning to their true colors—

how the necessary chlorophyll disguises

what’s really inside.

 

What I’m trying to say is look at the leaves

outside the window, see how vibrant they are?

I am trying to love like that,

every day, the colors more true.

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Raking the Leaves with Jack

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on October 28, 2018| 2 Comments »

for Jack Ridl and all the rakers

 

 

Pulling the rake through the cottonwood leaves,

I think of Jack in Michigan pulling his rake

through beech, birch, oak and ash leaves.

I stop to lean on my rake and I think

of him stopping to lean on his rake

and talk to the gods. I’m not so sure I believe

in gods, but I believe in Jack. I believe in kindness.

I believe in friendship that grows despite distance.

I believe that these rhythms of raking and making piles

bring us closer together—all of us rakers, all of us

who step into the slow cadence of pull and reach,

and pull and reach. There is something unifying

in this annual act of tidying the world. Every day

the news is full of all we can’t set right. But we

can drag the rake through the yard so that we

can see the path again. And we can set the rake

aside and stare at the sky and think of all

the people we love and all the people

we’ll never know who join us in this simple act,

reach and pull, reach and pull, reach and pull,

the sound of metal tines grating, the beat

of our own hearts scraping against our chests.

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Up the Hill

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on August 22, 2018| 2 Comments »

 

 

You walk fast,

she said, and

I said, I was walking

fast to keep up

with you, and

she said, I was

walking fast to

keep up with you

and we laughed

at ourselves as

our feet found

a new rhythm,

our hearts, too.

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