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Posts Tagged ‘love’


 
 
In the midst of a gnarled aspen grove
where the tree trunks were contorted,
distorted and knobby, my husband,
hiking behind me, joked,
These trees have been through a lot.
And they’re still here.
And I stopped mid trail
and turned to face him.
We’ve been through a lot,
I said. And we’re still here.
And there beneath the misshapen
trees with their leaves still green
and trembling in the wind,
we hugged and cried and cried
and hugged, knowing the full weight
of everything that might have kept us
from this moment.
Surrounded by aspen
and fields of purple asters,
I knew full body that this
was the moment that mattered.

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                  for P
 
 
All day I imagine my love
is a great ocean that lifts you
on a warm and gentle tide
so all you need to do today
is float. Float and let yourself
be carried. Float and know
that in this hour nothing
need be done. Perhaps
if you are still today, even
for a moment, you can feel
the way these distant waves
are near as your own sweet breath.
The weight of all that scares you
doesn’t change. I know. I imagine
I lift that, too. Lift it all until
you are certain no matter
how much things change,
you are not alone.

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The Changing View


 
 
He walks along the river’s edge,
boots up to his knees, pitchfork
balanced on his shoulder,
his handwoven bucket hat
balanced on his head. And
I fall in love again. Not with
the man I married, but with
the man he’s become—
the man who has pruned
the coyote willows for days,
for years, so we can see
the river as it changes from clear
to bright red from the storms.
Watch as it runs clear again.

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We float side by side on the pond for an hour—
you in a tube, me on a paddleboard,
both of us deep in our books.
But even immersed in another world,
I slip more deeply in love with this one
in which I’m your mother and you
my girl and our stories are woven
so closely together that even before
I flip the page of tomorrow, I know
for certain I will love you even more.

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Love, Like Math


 
 
People think it’s a moment of Eureka!
But it’s more like a wave,
said the mathematician,
and though he was speaking
of inventing new math,
I thought of discovering new love,
a wave of startling amplitude,
the thrill of energy passing through,
a trough of fear and a crest
of yes. A whole lotta blue.
I don’t remember much
of physics, but I recall
the surge, the crash,
the holding my breath.
I remember the certainty
I would drown, the equal terror
of finding myself on dry land.
It’s not just a flash of insight, he said.
I thought of how long I’ve been
solving for love.
Yeah, I said. I understand.

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One Caught

love casts its net—
let’s swim for it
fast as we can

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The Promise

 

 
We need to be light for one another.
                  —Parker Palmer
 
 
I will be your candle,
your headlamp,
your fireworks, your fire.
Your light bulb,
your lantern, your sunshine,
your flare.
And your lightning strike.
Your neon sign.
Your firefly. Your filament.
Your glowworm. Your star.
Your laser. Your torch.
Your flamethrower. Your spark.
I remember the exact
dark moment I knew
I would devote my life
to being your black light,
your back light,
your flashlight,
your comet, your match.
Your moon. Your ember.
Your pulsar. Your lamp.
Your bioluminescent wave.
Your strobe. Your ember.
Your flame. Your blaze.

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Sometimes I crawl inside
“What a Wonderful World”
where I am cradled not only
by the lyrics and the velvet
of Armstrong’s growlsome voice,
but also by my father who loved
the song so much that now,
almost three years after his death
the tune has become his arms
and each note carries some trace
of his love so that by the time
Louis croons “oh yeah” at the end,
I am moved in the same way
the wind moves a dead flower
across the field.
I am one with the leaves
and the roses, the skies
and the cries of the babies,
one with the love that stays,
one with the pain my father
was in in and one with the pain
of loving anyone whose death
leaves us feeling both empty and full.
In his last hours, Dad said,
“From our birth to our death,
the wonderment.”
I curl into that wonderment.
I sing along.

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Though I do not ask him to,
he rises early and goes
to the car with a razor and
bottle of blue windex
to remove the smear
of the caddis fly hatch
from my windshield.
Over a dozen miles
of spruce and aspen
pass before I see the gift.
For the next three hundred miles,
it’s all I see.

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One Caress

touching you
even these old scarred hands
become wings

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