Posted in Uncategorized, tagged generosity, gift, mystery, poem, poetry on November 7, 2019| 5 Comments »
In the box from eBay,
a green crystal elephant
and not one clue
as to who might have sent it.
There are days
when I am amazed
by the goodness of people,
how we are marked by generosity
There are days
when I whisper thank you,
though I don’t know to whom,
and I revel in the mystery.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dream, generosity, poem, poetry on October 31, 2019| 4 Comments »
She’s in a thrift store in her dream,
and though her daughter
suggests it’s too big,
Ruth buys me a men’s suit coat,
something to keep me warm.
Later she tells me the real reason
she bought it: she knows
I need the arms around me.
Into one of the pockets,
she slips a check for $100,
then asks her daughter
to give it to me.
I find the coat in a message
Ruth sends me on Facebook,
where the pixels warm me
more than any wool, more
than any fleece, any down.
How easy it is to be generous,
sharing our dreams, our thoughts,
our hope. All night I stick my hands
in the coat pockets. They are deep,
warm, full of surprises.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged generosity, gratitude, kindness, Lynn Ungar, miracle, poem, poetry on March 5, 2019| 4 Comments »
From a brown envelope sent by Amazon,
I pull out Bread and Miracles, a book
of poems I’ve admired for years.
I wrote the author long ago
to tell her I love her poems,
the way she makes devotion
of earthworms and camas lilies.
But there is no way to explain why
her words arrive here in my own kitchen
except through some miracle, which is,
I suppose, another name for kindness.
Whoever you are, sweet sender
of poems, thank you. Thank you
for knowing exactly what book
I might like to receive, though
I’ve never told anyone. Thank you
for knowing there would be a day
when a dear man died and I would need
to remember that goodness thrives,
that generosity flourishes, that
there are people out there who,
out of pure benevolence,
extend themselves to others.
There is a fairy tale in which
bread crumbs are insufficient to save
a brother and sister. But they are saving
this woman, and though I don’t know
where the trail began, I follow it forward
saying thank you, thank you, thank you.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged continuing, generosity, kindness, poem, poetry on October 19, 2018| 4 Comments »
Kindness is invincible.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 11.18.ix
And though I barely know her,
she met me on the street to give me
a small bottle of perfume. Scent of rose,
amber, white musk, scent of friendship
just beginning, scent of how we might choose
to meet each other—with the wisdom
of blossoms, opening. Already
I’m dreaming of ways to continue
her mischievous generosity,
imagining how each act will carry
a hint of citrus, rose, precious wood.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged generosity, poem, poetry, universe on June 9, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cold, generosity, parenting, poem, poetry, warmth on February 4, 2017| 2 Comments »
Finding by chance a buffalo nickel
my son decides to spend his fortune
on a girl he’s never met
who woke one morning
with cancer in her marrow—
he tells me he’s thinking
a lot about death,
and he’s scared,
and I tell him yes,
it’s scary.
Later, I look out the window,
and though there’s not a hint
of leaves on the trees outside,
I feel some certainty
about green and summer,
and I’m amazed at how
just when we think the world
could not get any colder,
we are reminded what even
a tiny bit of warmth can do.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged generosity, poem, poetry, sun on March 31, 2016| 2 Comments »
The sun and I made a promise—
to shine with no apology,
to bring warmth,
to give until we have nothing left to give.
In the night, the sun
entered my sleep
and tattooed my body
with golden words.
Now all my limbs
glitter with this vow—
there is so much beauty
for us to make.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged coffee table, Finland, generosity, hospitality, poem, poetry, reading poems on April 1, 2015| 7 Comments »
When you arrive at a home in Finland,
they will ask you to leave your shoes at the door.
They will usher you in where the table is set
with seven kinds of baked goods—berry pastries
and un-iced pound cake, four kinds of cookies,
and braided sweet bread with cardamom. They will ask you
to sit, and regardless what time of day it is,
they will pour you coffee, dark and rich.
With the first cup of coffee, you eat the sweet bread.
With the second cup, you eat cake.
With the third cup of coffee, you eat the pastry.
With the fourth, you try everything else.
It is polite to try everything. It is polite
to go back for more.
The ritual might take all day.
I should like to serve you poems this way,
with your feet bare and with nowhere else to go.
We could nibble the poems together,
feeding some deeper hunger that so seldom
is satisfied, the kind of hunger that cannot
be sated alone. Like the Finns, we would hold
lumps of sugar between our teeth when drinking in
what is dark and bitter. But drink it in we would,
cup after cup. There is so much to be read
between the lines, and we would let
all the unspokens join us at the table.
Not everything must be said. The midnight sun
would not set, and we would go
for a walk, perhaps pick gooseberries,
then rest a while, before
setting the table again.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged abundance, generosity, giving, god, love, poem, poetry, spirit, water on September 22, 2012| 3 Comments »
After all this time
you still pour
pure water
into my chipped cup.
You know
I will spill and still
you pour,
and you pour.
You know, too,
how even
despite great thirst
I will sometimes
refuse to drink,
how even when
the water doesn’t
reach my lips
they are still
blessed
with your giving.
