Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, the present, treasure on September 14, 2015| 1 Comment »
Right here the treasure.
Shine of rain
on the red fire hydrant.
It will not buy anything,
but in this very moment
there is nothing to buy
and no one from whom to buy it,
only a fragrant, rainy afternoon
with the gutters full to spilling
and not another soul on the street
and the aspen leaves on the hill
just at the edge of gold.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cat, poem, poetry, someday, the present on March 19, 2013| 2 Comments »
For so long I’ve been telling myself
the same thing. Someday, I say,
as if Someday were a fat striped cat.
When I’m paying bills, Someday
comes to the legs of my chair
and tries to leap up into my lap. Someday
comes to sleep at night on my pillow
and purrs in my ear. Someday
hisses at the window when it’s dark
and she senses something’s there.
Someday always wants to be stroked,
except when she doesn’t. And when
I am lonely, distracted by clouds,
Someday curls into my side
and nuzzles my hand as if to say,
though I ignore her, I’m here.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged mother, poem, poetry, son, the present on March 18, 2013| 2 Comments »
For now, the newspaper strips.
For now, the glue whisked from flour and water.
For now, the long shape of a great blue whale made of crinkled paper
and cardboard and tape.
For now, my son and I crouch on a green tarp in the garage. It is cold. The glue is cold.
For now, my pointer and middle fingers run the long length of the paper to scrape off the excess glue, scraping over the story about another boy. Scraping over ads for big houses and bagels and help wanted. Scraping over half-completed crosswords and the story of the snow that didn’t fall.
For now, we sing the word violin, over and over. Violin, -lin, -lin, violin, -lin, -lin.
For now, we are quiet. I prepare strips. He lays them on the whale, creating the flippers, the great body, the forked tail.
For now, he says, “Mom, This is so much fun.”
For now, I am only here, glue on my hands, glue in my hair, glue on my shoes, glue on my new blue pants and glue dripping between me and this boy as we reach back and forth.
For now, he spreads his palms across the whale, smoothing the headlines across the long back, the head, inside the gaping mouth.
For now, he tells me facts, such as, “Did you know the baby of the great blue whale is bigger than a Volkswagon Bug?”
For now, there is only now, with its cramping leg and its laughter and glue, though outside the garage, the wind is blowing in spring and someone is knocking and already some part of me turns away toward what perhaps comes next.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged now, poem, poetry, quatrain, the present on January 19, 2013| 2 Comments »
(after reading Before by Yehuda Amichai)
Before the frost
has left the pane
before the dawn
has come again,
before the bell
has stopped its ring,
before we think
we know something,
before the spring,
before the gasp,
before the time
for sowing’s past,
before the gap
cannot be leapt,
before the final
tears are wept,
before the honey’s
crystallized,
before the kitchen’s
sterilized,
before we remember,
before the signs,
before we think
we have more time.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged anxiety, fear, miso soup, poem, poetry, the present, worry on January 6, 2013| 2 Comments »
While worrying
about tomorrow,
I make soup.
Sliver the onion,
thin white crescent moons,
and then peel the carrots,
slice them on the bias,
sauté, add dashi, add miso, add scallion,
and boil the udon,
till the whole house
smells of the rich golden broth
and that sharp little mouth
that ceaselessly sings
what if, what if,
is so busy observing
the tang of the ginger—
so pungent, so silver—
it (almost) forgets to insist.