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Posts Tagged ‘love’

Sending Love


                  for my daughter
 
 
When you were a girl 
and you’d leave for camp,
I would talk to you 
through the sky,
whispering through
blue and star-dappled 
dark. The message
was always the same: 
I love you. I hope you 
are happy. I want to gather
you a jar full of sky
so wherever you are
you can put your ear
to it and hear those simple
words translated into starlight
and sunset, cumulous
and cirrus. Sometimes 
it’s easier to trust what 
we can hold in our hands. 
But if you ever spilled
the contents of the jar, 
the love would be no less
present. In fact, you could
hold the empty glass 
to your chest and feel
how love is as uncontainable 
as wind, as insistent as thunder,
as everywhere as air. 
 

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the sleek black raven
the feast of thick worms
the falling in love with them both

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I was sitting beside my mother on the couch,
knitting a blanket for my girl. My mother held
the yarn in her lap, a cloud of muted pinks. 
Outside, the tall dry grasses weaved 
in golden evening light. A Western Warbling Vireo 
rambled on in its jumbled, warbly way. Mom spoke 
of her plans for dinner the next night
and I knit two, purled six, knit two, purled six. 
She guided the soft wool through her fingers,
keeping just the right amount of slack. I felt
such a tide of love for her. Wanted to tell her 
I’m sorry for every time I’ve been hardened, 
every time I’ve pushed her away instead 
of pulling her close. I wanted to whisper
the love beyond words, some sentence true 
as the sweetness I felt today sitting beside her 
in the sun in the grass while we waited 
for a Belted Kingfisher or Northern Yellow Warbler 
to fly across the pond. But to name a feeling is so
much harder than naming a bird. So when the row 
was done, I rested my head on her shoulder, closed 
my eyes and nuzzled in. There was only softness 
in me then. I’d like to think she translated what 
I meant. Just as I knew what she was saying to me 
with each length of unspooling yarn: I know 
how you love me. I know your heart. I love you, too, 
my girl. By the time we rose, we were held 
by the dark. Even the swallows were quiet.

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How gently I move the volunteer sprouts
out of the potato bed and into another row,
careful to gather the fragile roots with a bit
of damp dirt, tamping lightly around the slender stem.
How fragile it all can be. I think of how tenderly
this morning my husband touched my face,
as if too well aware of how a single moment
can change everything. We folded 
into each other then like two petals
of a single flower. In the garden, 
I stare at the spindly transplants, 
a new row of tiny, rounded green leaves.
A delicate ache rises in me, charged with
love for the spare beauty of what is here
and an awareness of how the simplest scrape 
can make a whole world disappear.

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Tonight I can’t see the shape of the moon
behind a cluster of clouds, but I see 
the bright radiance seeping through the edges 
and know the moon is there—
that is how it is when I speak out loud 
to my father and son. Hi Dad, I say. 
Hi Finn. I love you. I miss you. 
And aren’t you so proud of our girl?
As I walk through the dark, scent of rain
in each breath, I can’t hear the shape 
of their words in my ears. But I swear, 
I feel it, the shine. 

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sitting on the couch, 
our bodies lean into each other—
two aspen trees, shared roots

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for Vivian
 
Already she knows terrible things happen. 
Already she knows the pleasure of scrambling
in the woods at night with friends and singing
too loud and making bad choices that are sometimes
exactly the right choices. She knows sobs and 
silliness. She knows how much humans can hurt
each other. She knows how a touch or a tender
word erases nothing but creates its own plot of trust. 
 
There was a time when my job was to protect her,
filling her pages with beauty and courage and honesty.
Now my job is mostly to love her, to give her her own pen. 
Because terrible things happen. And she is the one now 
who shapes her story. Every writer knows, we write 
what we know—and what we can’t ever know. 
I pray what emerges is the impossible—an irrational,
deep rooted love for this difficult, glorious world. 

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That’s how many school lunches
I’ve made her, more or less, since
that first day she held my hand and we 
stood on the grass outside the elementary school
before the first bell rang. Her hair was blonde then, 
mine not gray. I’m not crying as I make her
lunch this morning. Dilled bean and rice salad. 
Fresh blackberries. Pretzel sticks. 
Honeycrisp apples sliced into thin rounds
that her friends call “floppy apples.”
Maybe I’m crying. 
Me and all the other mothers on the last
day of the last year of school. Thinking of
two thousand three hundred forty bleary mornings
when I woke to pour love into plastic containers
along with dried mango and tofu cubes,
seaweed strips and yogurt tubes.
Okay. So I’m crying. I nibble the squared off core 
of the apple to gather every last bit of sweetness.
When it’s gone, I lick the stickiness from my fingers.

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What is unwanted still serves. 
                  —Sam Aureli, “Dandelions”

I was just sitting on the edge of the porch,
but I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe, 
I was sobbing and scared and hurting and
I couldn’t fucking breathe; panic surged in me,
my brain screamed red, and I tried to breathe— 
why couldn’t I breathe?—as my chest squeezed 
and sobs quaked and shook and stole me, 
and I couldn’t feel my heart. Wait. I couldn’t feel 
my heart? A star-bright awareness sang in me then
like a one-note song I could follow home through 
any darkness or density. Not that the terror disappeared, 
but in attuning myself to my heart, my physical heart 
opened enough to hold the terror. I sat on the edge 
of the porch. Just sat. And was breathed.

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More flowing than walking
she moves down the street,
her green dress billowing,
her shoulders bare.
Sometimes the world 
asks us to do impossible math—
for instance to add more love 
when already we are filled to capacity
with love. And again tonight, I meet it,
the impossible. 

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