Posts Tagged ‘time’

One Simultaneous




driving white knuckled

in the blizzard, meanwhile

a white camellia blooms

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One Almost Miss



catching the plane—

five hours later this heart

still rushing to the gate

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after Erik Satie’s Gnossienne 2



for you a song

with no measures

and this tessellating metronome

that ticks only love and slips

into each moment a forever





Dear friends,


You have perhaps guessed by now that I am doing a whole series of five-line poems on Satie’s Gnossiennes—five lines for the five lines of the staff. And each poem is titled based on the directions he wrote above the staves instructing the musician how to feel the music. There will be quite a few more … they’re really fun.



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I ask the earth

please, a little more time?

it spins on, spins on




finally dipping my toe

in the lap lane, already

I dream of the finish line




a bucket of anything

is best drunk a sip at a time—

even bliss




news from the heart—

it knows how to heal

its own holes




resolving to treat

all my concerns as poems—

now doubt, too, is beautiful




packing up the tent—

if only all habits could be folded,

bagged, stowed away





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Pulling the long red radish bulbs

from the garden, I marvel

at their pinkness, rub off the dirt,

bite into the crisp white flesh.

There are few tastes that bite

just right this way—make the mouth

happy to be a mouth and it teaches me,

without trying, that sometimes

when we wait too long,

a thing turns bitter. But oh, get

the timing right, my god, it’s sweet.

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One Slowing



braiding white daisies

to make a misshapen crown—

living blossom to blossom

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Just After Midsummer



Tonight we wander the fresh mown grass,

barefoot. Winter feet refused to believe it were possible—

but here we are, naked of sole and stepping slow


on soft green earth. Sometimes a whole life

folds into a moment, a moment such as this one,

when the scent of grass is bright in the air


and the sun slants a long and golden trail

and the breeze barely whispers

and the swallows redefine gravity


and you know you belong among the wildflowers

and you start to believe in impossible things

like now, like here, like soft green grass.


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Twelve Seconds


It’s the time it takes
to sing up to “k.”
It’s two full cycles
of breath. It’s less time
than a red light, and nine
more seconds than it takes
for a cheetah to go from
zero to sixty.
It’s one fifth of a minute waltz.
It’s $4,629 more dollars
for Bill Gates.
And, my friend tells me,
it’s how long it takes
for a hug to stimulate
the vagus nerve and trigger
oxytocin, helping the heart
to slow down and the cortisol
levels to drop. All day,
I practice long embraces—
and while we hug
the earth rotates at least 5,520 meters
and the universe expands
over 816 kilometers.
All day, I notice
how darn good it feels.


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Time Bend




Stepping into my children’s room

it is nine years ago and I almost trip over

the rocking chair that isn’t there,

can almost smell the calendula cream

I used for their bottoms, hear

the drone of the humidifier.

How different those quiet nights,

the amber glow of the night light,

the way their new bodies curled

so easily into the curve of my arm.

Not that I want to go back to those nights,

but how sweet they are now, how long

they were then. I want to tell that younger

version of myself that there will come

a day when she will wish she could

sit in the quiet and hold her children

through the night. But she wouldn’t believe me.

Too tired for belief. She just keeps

humming that lullaby, rocking back

and forth, her eyes closed as if to dream.




Dear friends, I’ll be camping the next few days, so no poems posted for a while … a bouquet when I return. xo


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It took five days, but at last I thought of you, old friend,

friend I loved and wanted to trust, friend


who burned every bridge I tried to build between us,

who turned gratitude and apology to smoke, to ash,


who taught me that love is not enough—a lesson

I never wanted to learn, which is why I am grateful


you helped me to learn it.

No one gets through life without injury.


Still, I wanted to believe that a kiss and forgiveness

could make things better, but some things


are better left broken. Thank you for teaching me

that all passes, that even without a road, without


a bridge, without a track, the train of time

finds a way to keep moving, eventually


speeding by so fast that what seemed

unable to be overcome becomes a blur


and that hope gives way to something even

more beautiful: saying yes to what is real.


So though you will never know it, I forgive you

for your scissored words and sharpened


silences. I forgive you for giving up on love,

for saying no, goodbye. It takes almost no effort now.


Even uranium has a half-life—albeit 4.5 billion years.

How much sooner forgiveness has come. More like a lawn


that went unwatered and dried to brown, to dust,

but then when seasonal rains returned, turned green.


Yes, thriving and lush, here is the new lay of the land,

ready for anyone to arrive. Anyone. Even you.

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