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?
Posts Tagged ‘spring’
Late Greening
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, self actualization, spring, waiting on May 2, 2017| Leave a Comment »
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.
Love Poem
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, spring on March 13, 2017| 2 Comments »
after Octavio Paz
under the tired veils of leaves,
under the indifferent rocks,
under the brown needles,
that were once evergreen
under the pinecones dropped
like old conversations,
under the broken sticks,
under the matted exhaustion of grass
comes the tender new green of spring clover,
thrusting through all that was frozen.
Bottoms Up or the Rest In Your Hair
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, spring, wonder on March 9, 2017| 1 Comment »
clinking my glass
with god—a toast
to the little green leaves
beneath the dead brush—
neither of us is surprised,
but dang, ain’t it grand
One Sign
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged emergence, poem, spring on May 14, 2016| 3 Comments »
from empty branches
the orange breasted song of the oriole—
a leaf, straining against the bud scales,
this heart still in winter
begins to believe in green
Inner Spring
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged becoming, poem, poetry, spring on May 1, 2016| 2 Comments »
Today, the cottonwoods
in the canyon are already
more green, more lush
than the day before—
we, too, are everyday
more ourselves, which
is to say less our story
and more whatever
it is that writes the story.
Of course it is not easy
to become, though
look, we can’t stop
becoming no matter
how hard we try,
It’s so soft, the new green,
though you and I both know
what it takes to push through,
to emerge into the cold.
A Languaging Between
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged language, love, poem, poetry, spring on April 18, 2016| 4 Comments »
Spring speaks a language
with only present progressive verbs—
just today as I walked into blue sky
turned blizzard, I attempted translations
into English with words such as flusterizing,
mirthing, tizzying, and unguarding,
but none of these seemed quite right.
As soon as I felt I had touched
something true, the moment
was already changed.
In Springese, there’s a word
that means both destroying
and flourishing. And another word
that means both grieving
and rejoicing. I felt my heart
leap up in glad recognition—so familiar
it is with unrepentant paradox
that the clumsy tongue can’t master.
They seemed to have a profound conversation,
my heart and spring, that my brain wanted
so much to decode. It could not,
but the snow was heavy and cold and wet
as it fell on my warming cheeks,
my rising chest, the greening grass.
And though it was clearly
inadequate, the brain settled
for this gloss, God, its so good,
so damned good to be alive.
But Oh In the Meantime
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, spring on March 20, 2016| 1 Comment »
I don’t remember the name
of the small purple flowers
that rise through the golden dirt.
On this first day of spring
they play hide and I seek
and they slip me a glimpse
of what might come,
like a man who holds a woman’s
gaze for just a moment
(and another moment)
too long.
Oh, the sweet tease of spring,
the keen inexplicable yes
of it, ahh, how sweetly
(how sharply)
it torments me,
though there
is no uncertainty
it will follow through
with its promises,
mmm hmmm,
eventually.
Get the Weather Right
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged opening, poem, poetry, spring, vulnerability, winter on May 17, 2015| 2 Comments »
They are still tight,
the buds on the chives.
They are wise not to open.
After a brief spring
it is winter again.
Days of white, nights of white,
thick snow and heavy sky.
Last week, when the birds
were singing, I opened.
I didn’t think of it then
as a vulnerable thing to do.
It seemed so dependable,
the sunshine of you.
I should have taken a hint
from the iris still folded
deep in their green envelopes.
Oh damn this lilac heart,
how it rushes to bloom.
The forecast is for winter all spring.
What the Spring Said
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged carpe diem, poem, poetry, spring on March 26, 2015| 4 Comments »
You can’t tell tulips
to unbloom,
you can’t unsing
last evening’s tune,
the shadow can’t undark
the moon,
you can’t unlove,
unbreathe, unswoon,
but wishes can be
ever wished
new bridges can be
ever crossed
so many kisses
still to kiss
before you unlive
unlaugh, dust.
Obeying the Impulse
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged attention, gratitude, poem, poetry, spring on May 31, 2014| 4 Comments »
The world exists just fine without
our appreciation. It is not for us
that the dandelions bloom in tides of yellow
across the valley floor. It is not for us
that the elk stream in a slow brown current
before they disappear into the Englemann spruce.
And then there are the tiny empires
of grasshoppers, ants and bees—
and the underground realms of prairie dogs
and worms and rhizomes and moles—
so much of the world we never see.
And still, this drive toward gratitude.
Still this tug to pull over the car and step out,
this impulse to offer the world my attention.
As if being very still were as vital to
the moment as the scurry and swerve,
scamper and stride. As perhaps it is.
In Case I Forget to Say It Enough
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratitude, poem, poetry, praise, spring on May 30, 2014| 6 Comments »
Thank you for this day made
of wind and rain and sun and the scent
of old-fashioned lilacs. Thank you
for the pond and the slippery tadpole
and the wild iris that opened beside the pond
last week, so pale, so nearly purple,
their stems already flagged and bent.
Thank you for the yellow morels hiding in the field grass,
the ones we can only see when we are already
on our knees. And thank you for the humming
that rises out of the morning as if mornings
are simply reasons to hum. What a gift,
this being alive, this chance to encounter the world.
What a gift, this being a witness to spring—
spring in everything. Spring in the way
that we greet each other. Spring in the way the golden eagle
takes to the thermals and spirals up to where
we can barely see the great span of its wings.
Spring in the words we have known
since our births. Like glory. Like celebrate.
like flowering. What is it in us that longs to unfurl,
to expand, to open up and leap out—
something feral, unnamable, something
so fierce it can push through the crust of the soil,
something so vulnerable it can freeze and overnight
disappear. Thank you for this return to exactly
where we are, this greening, this bright roar
of the river rising, this swooping
of swallows, this leafing of lettuce,
this now, this yes, this here.
One Springling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged alium, patience, poem, poetry, spring on May 29, 2014| 1 Comment »
begging the alium
to open faster—nope,
weeks of foreplay it is …
You Never Know What Might Happen at City Market
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, possibility, spring, transformation on May 26, 2014| 1 Comment »
From across the parking lot
on an early spring afternoon
you see a yellow butterfly
just before it disappears
behind the roof of the grocery store
and I am certain no scientist
could ever prove this, but
in that moment on the pavement
in the swirling chill of breeze
you are somehow saved, though you don’t
have a hint what that might mean, except
that it feels like, at least for that instant,
everything is possible.
On a Day Like This
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, spring on May 3, 2014| 1 Comment »
My darling, if there is a flute
nearby, let’s play it, even though
we don’t know how to properly
make a tune. Let’s dance in the field
even though we don’t know fancy steps.
Let us turn our hands into tambourines.
Let us make lyres of our hungry lips.
There’s a breeze, do you feel it,
how it’s playing our skin, and I think
it knows exactly what it’s doing.
Request
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, song, spring on March 20, 2014| 3 Comments »
Sing me fifty-five songs, love.
I am starved for song. It’s been winter
so long, so long and my ears are full of blue.
Sing me fifty-five songs, love,
one for each finger and one for each toe,
one for each rib and twenty-three more to wish on.
Sing me fifty-five songs, love.
I don’t care if they are in tune. And if you forget
the words, I will build a nest in your hum.
Sing me fifty-five songs, love.
And I will tuck them into my hair and wrap
them around my shoulders bare and toss them into the wind.
Sing me fifty-five songs, love.
Start now but take your time. And I will weave jonquils
between the notes to blossom each time you breathe.
Sing me fifty-five songs, love.
And sing me fifty-five more. I am starved for song,
the winter’s been long, and singing is what spring is for.
But Where Does it Come From?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged not knowing, poem, poetry, spring, uncertainty on March 28, 2013| 6 Comments »
These days are a mad gamble,
winter or spring, snow storm or sunburn,
though there is no mistaking
who’s leading the dance.
Overnight the pond ice
is gone. A bird we can’t name
dives below the open water
and we gasp, wondering how long
he can stay under there.
How long have we been under,
holding our breaths, fishing
for something, we know not what.
How long has it been winter?
There is frost in my hair.
Coming up for air, is that what we
are doing? It is hard to not notice
the spells that spring weaves
on the wind—scent of thaw,
scent of emergence, scent of divulgence,
scent of almost green. What are we becoming?
The tulip, it knows what will blossom
at the end of its stem. The jonquil,
the chokecherry, the avens. Are we,
too, predetermined in our unfolding?
I used to think I knew something about
how our story goes. That was before
the spine fell off the book and the pages
fluttered away like so many swooping starlings.
Let’s not try to answer anything. The ground
itself is breaking. The buds are breaking.
The vine is pushing life through what looks dead.
It is not that the prayers worked. It is spring.
Grace
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awakening, grace, life, poem, spring, weed on March 13, 2013| 4 Comments »
Spring comes to the sidewalk
in the longer days of March.
The sun warms the slab, and beneath
it the seeds of old weeds start to stir.
They are tiny. And who knows how,
but in the dark, they begin to grow
and put down roots and,
though it seems unlikely,
begin to push through the concrete itself.
First a hairline crack. This fissure is somehow
sufficient to provide light and water enough.
Soon there are tendrils, then whole leaves,
then the yellow blooms of new weeds.
What is it in us that knows to push?
I, too, have wintered in a dark, thick cast, one
of my own making. Cramped and dormant,
I had stopped believing in hope.
But it was not hope that cracked the shell.
Nor was it anything that I did.
It was life’s longing for itself.