cleaning off my shoes
before walking through the mud,
and Love says to me,
what? do you think
I am going to carry you?
Posts Tagged ‘spring’
One Reality Check
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged independence, love, mud, poem, poetry, spring on March 18, 2019| Leave a Comment »
If You Hear a Rustle, Perhaps
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged angel, fall, grass, poem, poetry, rest, spring on November 10, 2018| 8 Comments »
Every blade of grass has an angel that bends over it and whispers, “Grow, grow.”
—The Talmud
Imagine them, all those angels
jostling over the field,
catching their hands
in each other’s halos,
their wings a shimmering
fuss. Imagine the rising tide
of the chorus, how
whisper turns clamor
turns turbulent roar.
Imagine the dizzying pitch
of encouragement, grow,
Grow, GROW, until bam!
a riotous tumult of green.
But what of the song
at the end of the season,
when angels, exhausted,
sigh rest, rest. And they press
their tired cheeks against
each other’s faces, let
their wings dangle
in lucent grace. And the field,
seeded, relaxes and goldens
and sleeps. And the angels
snuggle in sacred heaps and breathe,
and breathe, white robes
like snow, and they sleep talk
between their sonorous snores,
that’s enough, dear one, let go.
One More Storm that Didn’t Happen
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, snow, spring, winter on March 28, 2018| Leave a Comment »
After Winter
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, present, seasons, spring on May 27, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Sometimes in spring
I forget it is ever
not spring, forget
that there will be a time
without hummingbirds
and the raucous call
of the geese. These lilacs
and their purple scent
are forever. Forever
is this deep green field.
I almost resent
the voice that writes this poem,
the part that notices how already
the apples have gone
from ecstatic white bloom
to small hard fruit.
One Humbling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged 84, poem, poetry, spring, work on May 24, 2017| Leave a Comment »
in seven days
the radish sprouts
push green through earth—
every job on my list today
seems quite easy
RSVP
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged falling in love with the world, poem, poetry, spring on May 11, 2017| 2 Comments »
And why not be flagrantly happy,
really. The moon is full and rakish
and spring keeps teasing the morning
into taking off its sweater. By noon,
everyone is blushing. In the garden,
strawberries come up on their own,
their fearless white flowers
pre-wired for sweetness.
Who cares the weeds are already
releasing their onslaught of filigreed seeds.
Inside us, an open invitation to fall in love.
Inside us, the pluck to say yes.
One Spring Lesson
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, pussy willow, softness, spring on May 4, 2017| Leave a Comment »
arriving with no armor
with softness
they teach me
another way to meet the cold,
these pussy willows
Late Greening
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, self actualization, spring, waiting on May 2, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Last year’s wild roses
have not yet discovered
it’s spring—the brambles
are barren and barbed.
What else is there but
to trust that the green leaves
and petals will come? What
else but to stand in our
own barrenness and believe?
Parched
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged falling in love with the world, poem, poetry, spring, weed on April 24, 2017| Leave a Comment »
How could I know
it’d be a weed
that would save me—
one which I’ve
spent hours on my knees
trying to eradicate—
didn’t know that
on a day when
I needed to believe in spring,
it would appear in the quack grass,
its tiny purple flowers
calling to me
as if I were not the woman
who had uprooted them,
calling to me
as if I too
have some spring
left in me.
Less Than a Week After the Vernal Equinox
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged emergence, forgetting, poem, poetry, remembering, spring on March 26, 2017| 2 Comments »
In the bottom of my bottom drawer,
my swimming suit hides beneath t-shirts
and mini skirts, all of them wrinkled.
The bikini top strings are untied—
they snake around the dark space
like the sprouted eyes of potatoes.
All this waiting. Somewhere there is light.
The shape of the suit remembers
what it is like to hold things in
and keep things up. It remembers
the way the ocean waves tugged at its knots,
the gritty insistence of sand.
Outside, it is snowing again—
snow on the buds of the lilac tree,
snow on the first green of parsley.
Inside, there is this woman
who has stuffed things into dark corners.
I have nearly forgotten what it is
to be warm, warm enough
to wear next to nothing, warm enough
not to cover my heart with layer
after heavy layer. I am learning
how what is forgotten doesn’t really
go away. The shape of me
remembers how to pull my arms
through the water, how to tread
to stay on top. Outside, the sound
of the plow scrapes past. I am wondering
what else might be in that bottom drawer.
Sign up for my daily poem!
Archives
Meta
