Posted in Uncategorized, tagged drought, poem, poetry, praise, summer, water on July 4, 2018| 8 Comments »
Praise the summer, with its
endless drought. How you’d rather
revile it, change it, pray
for the world to be another way.
Praise the sky, relentlessly clear,
and the dry field that crunches
beneath your feet.
You dream of green, dream
of laughing in the rain, dream
of puddles and the thin river
rising. But praise the scarcity,
how it teaches you what
you would rather not know—
how fragile the balance,
how every drop matters,
how lucky it is
to grow.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged friendship, poem, poetry, summer on July 3, 2016| 3 Comments »
for Christie and Dave
While standing amidst
the airy branches
of the mulberry bush
and pulling the darkest
fruits to our lips
and laughing
in the bliss of it,
it’s easy to believe
we will always
be happy, that there
will always be sweetness
enough to share,
and that there will always
be something wonderful
yet to ripen.
Yes, it is raining,
and yes, there are troubles,
far away and even inside
our own stories,
but for now, there’s
this branch, heavy
with midsummer,
there’s this humming
of old melodies
we all know, there’s
this stain on our chins,
on our busy hands.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aging, body, poem, poetry, summer on June 23, 2016| 2 Comments »
Summer, what could you say to this body,
this body nearing its autumn?
What could your flowers teach this heart
about blooming despite heat, despite drought?
What could your shortening days tell this woman
about opening to light?
Summer, I think I know too much.
Teach me warm. Teach me thunderstorm.
Teach me how to be green, and then greener.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged camping, poem, poetry, summer, tent on July 24, 2015| 1 Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged light, poem, poetry, summer, sun, warmth, what cannot be held on June 12, 2012| 2 Comments »
Sometimes midsummer the body
simply refuses to go inside. Though
reason would say to hide from the sun
midday, the body goes out anyway
to the garden, the orchard, the river,
the field and gathers warmth, as if
it could store this wealth of light, as if
one winter night it might from some fold
of pallid skin produce a secret radiant skein,
something fulsomely warm still smack
with peonies and wild mustard scent,
something not bitter and not at all slant
that we might wrap our shivering bodies in,
oh wheeling swallows, oh sun so high.
