In the small gray boat
I floated into the lock
and found myself closed in
the giant metal chamber.
Water poured down the end wall,
and I was terrified
by the roar of the spillage,
aware I had no motor,
no sail, no oars, no way
to escape the lock.
But inch by inch, foot by foot,
my boat was lifted
by the growing depths
and I was lifted with it
until the lock opened
and my boat flowed out
into new higher waters.
How is it sometimes
when we cannot imagine
what comes next,
the world shows us
how the unimaginable
happens, and all that is asked
of us is presence and patience?
Released, I still had no way
to steer the boat,
no way to navigate
toward what came next,
but the sun attached
a beam to the bow
and pulled me moment
by shining moment
into the open waves.
Posts Tagged ‘patience’
The Dream
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged boat, dream, lock, patience, presence, rising, trust on July 29, 2026| 4 Comments »
Letter to an Unnamed Star
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged becoming, gravity, patience, star, wish on April 22, 2026| 8 Comments »
How could you prepare yourself
for the pressure of the wishes?
How to prepare for the burden
when any given person on earth
might choose, at last, out of desperation
most likely, to look up and notice you shining
in the great vast dark and pin on you
their greatest hope grown like a weed
from the seeds of their greatest fear?
You, formed from a cloud unimaginably cold,
were never prepared to receive such longing,
such ache, such stubborn, relentless faith.
The fact we can see you at all means
you survived a battle in which gravity
wins. What do you have to teach us
of wishes? Perhaps the wisdom of falling
in on ourselves, faster and faster;
how we must give away enormous energy
in order to stabilize our core. You model
how we must give ourselves to a process
of becoming. Are you fighting for it?
I imagine you might ask, as you, too,
battle against pressure and what’s happening
in the field beyond your control.
Have you learned yet to power yourself?
you might ask as you spontaneously fuse
hydrogen atoms to form helium. And somewhere
in the midst of the forty million years
of becoming a star, you might ask of us wishers,
Have you learned yet anything of patience,
how much brightness it can bring?
In Time
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged failure, garden, parsley, patience, seeds, trust on March 28, 2026| 6 Comments »
In soil not yet worked this spring,
two perfect rows of parsley emerge
in a curly leafed celebration of green,
vestiges from last year’s planting.
Where is not garden?
Good hands, what will you do
with this new trust rising
out of what looked like failure?
Beyond Patience
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged patience, presence on July 8, 2025| 5 Comments »
If I knew another word for patience,
would it open me to the act?
Perhaps something that invokes the patience
in the zinnias after the first central flower has died
and before the next buds are formed.
Something that speaks to the patience of winter
while the field is greening more deeply every day.
To be patient is to believe there is a moment
beyond now that will be better than now.
So perhaps instead of patience, the word
I’m longing for is presence. The capacity
to be only here. Only now. Here in the garden
where the zinnia row is thick with leaves.
Here in the meadow where it’s warm and
the tall grass tickles my bare thighs. Now
in the week before my sweet girl arrives.
Ah, there it is, back to the anticipation.
Try again. Presence, as in now, in this moment
when swallows swoop and skate and swirl.
Now, when my breath opens in my chest,
opens like a zinnia, many petalled and red.
One Impatience
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, healing, impatience, patience on November 21, 2024| 8 Comments »
like asking the peach
to ripen before it has even flowered—
this longing to be healed
The Ripening
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fruit, imperfection, marriage, patience, pears, ripening on September 19, 2024| 11 Comments »
At the roadside stand,
I buy you a flat of pears.
They are hard and slightly
scarred, lumpy as Bartletts
often are, still wearing
the deep green of unripe fruit.
Some bear a garish red blush
on their shoulders where
the leaves did not hide them,
and all are stippled
with freckle-like dots, each one
a small celebration of imperfection.
There will be a day soon
when the pears will golden
and the warm kitchen air
will be thickly strung
with the scent of pear,
sweet and floral,
a scent that reminds
me of walking the rows
of the orchard in long ago summers
gleaning the smallest fruits.
Sometimes what is left behind
has the chance to become sweeter
than what first seemed more prized.
Remember how we’d pull tree-ripe pears
from the branches to our mouths,
white juice baptizing our chins?
I like the way you lift one now
from the counter,
feel its heft as if testing
for goodness yet to come.
We are no strangers to patience.
Year after year, we have watched
what is hard become treasure.
We have taken the lesson into our bodies,
these imperfect bodies, slightly
scarred, more lumpy with every year,
but oh, the ripening.
At the Picnic with the Parks Supervisor
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged patience, time, trees on August 4, 2024| 4 Comments »
With thanks to Rich Hamilton
I remember when I planted that tree,
he says, and I look at the beautiful
sensation box elder that grows
in the park, tall as the fire station,
alive as I am. I bet you remember
when this park was a dustbowl with dandelions,
he jokes. And I do, though in this
moment my feet sink into bright green grass.
I remember chasing my children
around that tree when we were younger.
I remember when that pool of shade
where people now sit was all brash sun.
I think of how much time it takes
to nurture a place. I tell myself,
sometimes goodness grows
in the world if we wait. I tell myself,
sweetheart, time to plant trees.
Evidence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, flower, hope, joy, orchid, patience on March 9, 2023| 15 Comments »
After almost two years
of growing only leaves,
the orchid that sat
on the back windowsill,
the one I have dutifully
watered and whispered to,
the one I had finally
resolved to throw away,
sent up a single spiraling stem,
shiny and darksome green,
and I who have needed
years to hide, to heal,
felt such joy rise in me
at the site of tight buds,
the kind of irrational joy
one feels when something
thought dead is found alive,
not only alive, but on the edge
of exploding into beauty,
and now it doesn’t seem
so foolish after all, does it,
this insistent bent toward hope.
Lumbricus terrestris
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dark, density, patience, porosity, spaciousness, worm on November 13, 2022| 15 Comments »
On a day when the world is weighty,
dark and dense with need,
I want to be the earthworm
that gives itself over to tunneling,
its every movement an act
of bringing spaciousness.
And when minutes feel crushed by urgency,
I want to meet the world wormlike,
which is to say grounded,
consistent, even slow.
No matter how desperate the situation,
the worm does not tunnel faster
nor burrow more.
It knows it can take decades
to build fine soil.
To whatever is compacted,
the worm offers its good worm work,
quietly bringing porosity
to what is trodden,compressed.
So often, in my rush to repair,
I end up exhausted.
Let my gift to the world be
my constancy, a devotion to openness,
my willingness to be with what is.
Let my gift to myself be patience
as I tend what is dense and dark.
It’s Going to Take a Long Time
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, garlic, grief, patience, planting, time on November 6, 2022| 18 Comments »
is what you say when pressing
the garlic cloves into the soil in early November:
five inches down, sprout side up.
But no matter how well one plants them—
preferably six inches apart so they don’t compete
for sunlight or water or space—
it will still be a long time
before green shoots come up.
It’s the same thing I say to myself
as I sit by my husband and weep,
as I’ve done nearly every day
for over a year since our son died.
No matter how well one grieves—
whether the heart is cracked asphalt
or a lush peony—
it’s going to take a long time.
A long time, perhaps forever.
I tell myself, Go ahead,
cry when you think of how he used to race
to the car when you’d come home.
As if I could stop myself.
I cry because my body says cry.
Because I remember the shape
of his body crushed into mine.
Because sometimes my heart
is more dead bird than wing.
Because some things we simply live into.
Winter will come and freeze the dirt.
Next spring, there will be green shoots.
Late summer, we will pull thick bulbs from the earth.
We will welcome the taste, sharp and strong.
On the Longest Day of the Year
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dark, light, patience, solstice on June 22, 2022| 8 Comments »
There is comfort in knowing
that every year
since the earth was made
there has been
a longest day of the year—
a day when half of all life
wakes to an abundance of light
and then in that moment
of greatness leans again
toward the dark.
There is comfort in knowing
the light comes, the light leaves,
the light comes, the light leaves,
comfort in knowing
all the light that is
reaches toward us,
whether we can see it or not.
It is simply a matter
of staying out of our own way,
and if we can’t do that,
well, that is what patience is for.
Apricot Wine
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged patience, time, wine on July 30, 2021| 5 Comments »
for Dave
From this glass of chilled apricot wine,
bottled just days ago,
I drink the long days of summers past,
a potent sweetness that comes
only with time. I drink the memory
of the hands that harvested the fruit,
the memory of patience,
memory of soft rain and deep blue.
If I could bottle this day,
would there be enough sweetness in it
to make a wine I could savor?
Were there enough moments
when I fell in love with the world?
A laugh with a friend, scent of pine needles,
cold shower on hot skin,
and this glass of apricot wine.
Could I learn, as this wine has,
how to let goodness develop,
how to invite the taste of something wonderful
that wasn’t originally here?
In this wine, hints of pineapple, lemon,
plum. By what magic do they appear?
Oh world, teach me that patience.
Teach me to trust in time, to trust
in magic I don’t understand,
to improve with age, like apricot wine.
The Apology Speaks
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, patience on July 21, 2021| 2 Comments »
How long ago did you forget about me?
I used to bloom in your mind like bindweed,
twisting and lacing through every thought,
but you were too afraid then to say my
two small words. I’m sorry. You wanted
to say them. You meant them. You knew
how much power I have. Even so, you knew
I wasn’t enough. And you knew
I couldn’t be heard in the windstorm
that raged for months. It’s quieter, now,
so quiet I’d think you could hear me knocking
inside your heart. When did you let
the blur of the days obscure me? I’m here,
waiting to be given voice. Though neglected,
I am no less important. Ah, there, I felt you
brush up against a petal, soft as forgiveness,
deep rooted as shame. I’m here, waiting. I’m here.
One Eventual Path
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cage, heart, key, patience on June 24, 2021| Leave a Comment »
so long I dreamt of a key—
now it crumbles to dust
this old cage around my heart
Note to My Future Self
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged future, patience, self talk, story on May 23, 2021| 2 Comments »
Please don’t tell me what will happen.
I’ve peeked before at the end of a book
and know how one detail learned too soon
can ruin the entire story.
Not that I wish to be patient.
Of course, I want to know what’s coming,
but this story only works in present tense.
Even when it makes me weep,
even when I’d rather put this story down,
even when I’d like to rewrite the last scene,
please, don’t give me even a little hint.
I am not sure I believe in happy endings,
but I believe in turning the page,
in holding the weight of the book in my hands,
and racing through the text,
my eyes eager to discover what comes next.
Allium
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged becoming, gardening, onion, patience on April 25, 2021| 2 Comments »
While I did not fix
the thing I most
wish to fix, and I
did not do
the most important
thing on my list,
and I did not save
anyone, and I did
not solve the world’s
problems, I did
plant the onion sets
in the garden,
pressed my fingers
into the dry earth,
knew myself as
a thin dry start.
Oh patience, good
self. This slow
and quiet growing,
this, too, is
what you are
here to do.
published in ONE ART: A journal of poetry
Ode to the Fallen Angel Food Cake
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged angel, cake, failure, impatience, patience, personal responsibility on November 16, 2020| 9 Comments »
I suspected I shouldn’t
open the oven door
ten minutes before
the timer went off.
Is it a sin if you don’t
know the rule?
The cake looked perfect,
when I checked,
but ten minutes later
the puff of white had fallen,
fallen like Lucifer,
fallen into a dense sponge
from which it would never
again rise. Oh angel food cake,
victim of my impatience,
we ate you anyway,
served you with strawberry fluff,
and you, like a true angel,
stayed sweet. It was no fault
of your own that you fell.
How often am I responsible
for the so called failures
of others? How often
do I, in my excitement,
cause more harm than good?
Praise the fallen angel food cake,
that still, though compact,
offered itself to the birthday.
Praise what is good
that insists on its own goodness,
despite adverse circumstance.
Let me remember
the graceful botch,
the redeemable flop,
the crumb yet moist, so tasty.
Because Patience Implies a Faster Frame
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged patience on October 11, 2020| 10 Comments »
The world asks me to be patient.
Every finish line I’ve drawn
gets erased by the wind
and the path goes on, slows on.
I try to measure a life in minutes
and the world shows me the rings of a tree.
I must hurry, I think, and the day gives me
sunshine so warm that my thoughts
turn to honey, the watch
on my wrist starts to laugh.
On some immense scale,
just one moment can balance against
a whole lifetime.
And next, says the world, can you lose
the idea of patience? Can you live
at the speed of now?
Endurance
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged endurance, heart, love, patience on September 3, 2020| Leave a Comment »
In the middle of my heart
is a meadow with tall golden grass
and a big blue blanket
spread out like an invitation.
I never fold it up.
Not ever.
It is always the right time
to meet you there.
The light is always golden.
The air is always sweet.
Even when I ache.
Even when my heart
ticks in my chest,
not like a clock,
like a bomb.
Backroads Anthem
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged driving, patience, road, road rage, road trip, sarcasm on August 18, 2020| 4 Comments »
Perhaps when I’ve lived long enough
that time and I have become good friends,
I will no longer curse at semi-trucks
going sloooow on the two-lane highway.
No, I will simply drive fourteen miles under the speed limit
and happily harmonize with the oversexed songs on pop radio
and notice how beautiful the swirls in the red rock cliffs.
I will not imagine fitting consequences
for drivers who pass in no-passing zones.
I will simply say thoughtful little prayers for them
to protect them on their way
as they blithely jeopardize the lives
of every other human on the road.
And I’ll be so grateful for construction delays—
how they give me time to sit and reflect
about how happy I am to no longer be
the kind of woman who gets upset about traffic
and all the small-hearted dim wits
who don’t pull over when twelve cars are following them—
yes, it will be so nice to sit there beside the orange cones
with a smile on my face,
not ashamed at all that I used to be so bothered by it,
oh, remember that chapter?
I’ll be so amused I ever thought it was a problem
to creep an inch an minute for an hour and a half—
how lovely the slowness, the pace of patience,
my hands on the wheel, my foot humming above the brake.