with thanks to Rae
Inside the glass bottle,
the wine from Sangiovese grapes—
aged in oak barrels for three years—
continues to age,
losing its youthful fruitiness,
becoming more heady,
more sour cherry, more rose.
A glass of such wine is like
a drinkable love letter to change.
So when the sommelier’s wife
gifts me a vintage from the year
my son was born,
I taste more than raspberry,
dried flowers, coconut and tobacco.
I taste deep red.
I taste rolling down grassy hills
and painting our faces with mud.
I taste sleepless nights and midnight fears.
Homework at the table.
Camping in the desert.
The vinosity of devotion.
Late summer swims in the pond.
The glass empty long before
I wish it were done.
Posts Tagged ‘memory’
Il Poggione Brunello di Montalcino, 2004
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged complexity, container, gift, memory, wine on August 17, 2023| 12 Comments »
In the Days Leading Up to His Death Anniversary
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death anniversary, grief, loss, memory, sensuousness, thisness on August 12, 2023| 17 Comments »
Strange how the body remembers
everything about this time of year—
the angle of light, the hue of sky,
the scent of almost rain,
the shape of the green beans
twisting on the vine. It remembers
the cool of the basement,
the curl of my hand as it slid
into his hand, remembers
the tilt of the hill where we drove,
the droning of bees in the sunflowers,
the brief blaze of fireflies.
It’s as if the shock of his death
opened every door of every sense
so I was flooded with life,
imprinted with the thisness of everything.
In these days leading up to his death,
life rings me, bell-like, again and again,
and I chime, charged with memory,
amazed how my own emptiness
is what allows for the world
to make in me such music,
so vital, so clear, so raw.
I Loved Those Years When
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fireworks, fourth of july, grandparents, memory on July 4, 2023| 6 Comments »
We sat in the grass
on my grandparents’ lawn
and watched fireworks
above the lagoon,
and as the sky glittered
gold and red and silver
and the humid air boomed
with the rapture of celebration,
my family a chorus of awe.
And the fireflies put on a show
of their own, and no one I loved
had died. How magic it all was.
Oh, how we ooohed, we ahhhed.
Father’s Day, 2021
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged father's day, happiness, memory, music on June 18, 2023| 3 Comments »
That was the year our small family
strolled the closed-off streets
in Ridgway and listened
to mariachi and country
and a fabulous upright bass.
And my son was at ease,
my daughter content
my husband smiling.
And I remember thinking,
Remember this.
Two years later, I remember
my joy in the moment
now tethered to me like a shadow.
I remember sun warm on our backs.
I remember even then knowing
happiness doesn’t last.
I remember telling myself,
sweetheart, remember.
And I remember. It’s so beautiful
it hurts. I remember.
One Foray
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged memory, morel, mushroom, time warp on May 25, 2023| 3 Comments »
orienting my day
by this constellation of morels
I find myself five years ago
Last Time
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged authenticity, grief, Lorrie Gardner, memory on May 8, 2023| 7 Comments »
for Lorrie Gardner
She was weeping that day,
the last day I saw her.
She stepped out of the shadow
into the late October sun,
and she held me on the sidewalk.
And I held her, too.
And we cried.
How many times
had we sat in the soft light
of her classroom
and laughed about things
the students had said?
We planned parties and
field trips and poetry lessons.
We spoke about goals for my children
and goals for ourselves
and kids losing teeth and
ways to teach vocabulary.
We spoke of divorce
and dance, jitters and singing,
ski technique and running
and feeling displaced.
On that last day I saw her,
I don’t remember what we said.
But I remember the open look of her face—
the way she didn’t try to hide her grief,
the way she didn’t try to avoid mine.
Of course we didn’t know then
it would be the last time.
Perhaps a younger version of me
would judge the memory,
would wish we had been smiling,
but I am so grateful to remember
the truth of that moment:
her broken open heart,
my broken open heart,
our arms around each other
with love so fierce, so soft.
Ode to the Empty Cup
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cup, emptiness, memory, thirst on May 3, 2023| 12 Comments »
There are cups on my shelf
I will never use—
cups that will never hold tea
nor water nor coffee.
It brings me such joy
they are there, though,
filled, as they are,
with memories.
Perhaps this is how
I begin to teach
the thirstiest parts of me
that a cup without something
tangible in it
is not always empty.
What Goes Unspoken
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged memory, sexual assault, speaking out on February 10, 2023| 40 Comments »
Hi friends–before you read the poem, a little note about content.
It’s Teen Love & Consent week here in Telluride, and lots of difficult conversations are happening about statistics and setting boundaries. At the same time, some difficult news about teen sexual assault has been in our local papers. And so this poem was born. Because it’s so far out of the realm of my normal content, I wanted to give you the ability to not read the poem. It’s not graphic, but it’s not easy to read either. It’s farther down the page.
I realize as I send this what a roller coaster you signed up for when you subscribed to the daily poems, and I thank you for meeting me every day with the all of it. It means so much to me, your presence, thank you.
with great respect,
Rosemerry
What Goes Unspoken
with gratefulness for the girls who spoke out
On the table, the tulips are opening,
splaying in effortless pink delight,
an homage to how soft things can bring so much pleasure,
and I think of how you once scolded me for picking flowers,
saying it was better to leave them as they were.
That was years ago,
when I traveled to see you on Cape Cod.
You were a tennis pro
and I was the girl who thought I could come to love you.
I had gone for a walk in the woods
and picked you a small bouquet.
Violets, perhaps, and something small and white.
I didn’t know then that I was a tulip.
We’d flirted. You seemed kind.
I never thought you would—
never imagined I was—
never dreamt when I said no you wouldn’t—
Mostly I left my body.
I remember staring at the windowsill while you—
I’d put the flowers in a jar. They were purple and white.
How could you defend the flowers and yet—
I didn’t open for you and you cut—
I was a stem when I left.
It’s been years since I remembered you,
but there was an article in the paper this week
about a boy here who—
Eleven girls spoke out.
How many girls did you—
I never said a word.
I have a girl now, too.
One Everywhere
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged christmas tree, loss, memory on January 17, 2023| 6 Comments »
like Christmas tree needles
still appearing long after the tree is gone—
these memories of you
When Mom Suggests I Could Rest My Head in Her Lap
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fish, memory, mom, rest, time on December 14, 2022| 8 Comments »
I resist. There is so much to do,
but soon my eyes are closed
and Mom is pulling her fingers
through my hair the way I love
and I am ten again, or four,
or twenty-five, or two,
lying on the plaid couch
in our old house
with my head in Mom’s lap,
her fingers in my hair.
I wake up drenched in forever,
this timeless stream
I sometimes can see for what it is—
like a fish that leaps for a fly
and sees, oh! an infinite world
beyond the world it knows.
Is it any wonder, this water
clinging to my cheek
as I rise from the couch
and swim back into the night.