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Posts Tagged ‘parenting’

 

 

 

Just today, in the garden,

I found dozens of dark blue

McHugh Blue potatoes,

hard and small, their

delicious fists hiding

in the cool soil.

How wonderful the world is

if you just dig a little.

All those things you planted,

they show up, even though

everything around them

looks dead.

Don’t be in a hurry,

the woman said,

and I realized

I was wishing away

these difficult days.

Imagine how patient

the ground.

 

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Annual Check Up

 

 

 

The doctor checks their pulses,

their ears, their throats,

knee reflexes and weight

and dubs them healthy,

gives them high fives

without mentioning

(did he not notice?)

that they have wings.

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One Almost 5’10

 

 

 

the tree I planted

now taller than I—

my empty hand

still remembering

the weight of the acorn

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the wind tugs the leaves

off the aspen trees, many

before they’re golden—

 

children, I say, I love you,

and kiss their green ears

their green heads as I send

 

them to school,

tell them to go

do beautiful things

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In Knots

 

 

I’ve spent years learning to tie the monkey’s fist,

wrapping the long working end of the rope

around the fingers of my hand. While rocking

and nursing and feeding and soothing, I’ve held

the first set of turns in place, then made three more turns

with the rope. While reading and chasing and

swinging and catching, I’ve learned to pass the end

through the inside of the knot, to make turns inside

other turns. And pull it all tight, just so.

 

I have wanted to perfect this heaving line knot,

something I might use to throw to my son

to save him when he drifts away.

I have practiced the art of the throw, but it seems

I have tied my own hands by accident.

And now that it’s time to untether the line,

my hands want only to practice what they know,

holding on, holding on, holding on,

how clumsy this new art, letting go.

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The night is enormous—

big enough to hold us both

in a way that make us

seem close.

This is why I speak to you

through the stars—

not because I think

that they can hear,

but because I pray

you can.

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I tell myself this is how love begins,

with a grumble. A rock in the shoe.

The flowers dead. Sleet.

This is how love begins, with taunting.

With mud on its feet. It begins

when we can’t imagine loving.

It begins when there is no light.

This is how love begins. When

we’re too exhausted to fight,

and as we slump, a door appears,

and we can’t imagine not

walking through it.

 

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