31 December 2013

before the snow

leaf shadows
and raccoon
paw prints
the sidewalk
until I can't
tell one from
the other

What I'm Made of This Week

This week I am made of
clumsy and tired and
hurting; please just
let me lie.

Today's Goal

Today's Goal:

Get the tuna
in the fridge.

one of those weeks (2)

the kind of week
when chances are high
that I will accidentally
walk into a men's restroom

one of those weeks

one of those weeks
when you can get
the tuna to the
kitchen but can't
concentrate long enough
to get it into the fridge

Yoda was wrong

Yoda was wrong.
Sometimes all there is
is try and try and try
and fail and get up
and try again.  If
I wanted to debate
with the old Jedi master,
I would say, "I will do
the best I can with
the time and tools at
hand" and hope that
satisfied the spirit
of the lesson he was
trying to teach.

beautiful lie

today the skies
give warmth the
lie with bright
sunshine and high
cloudless blues
while the windchill
below blows low
negative numbers

trees without leaves

the ones that have lost the most
are the beautiful ones still coated
with snow even after the sun
has been up for hours

a good day for rain

In the morning it was that rain nearly indistinguishable from fog: big, slow droplets floating lazily and vaguely down.  I love that kind of rain because it coats and collects on the trees and the twigs and the leaves and falls at random with big plops well-spaced raindrops falling in slow motion surprising and relaxing.

In the evening, it was a lovely fog, making everything mysterious.

hope like water

I feel sometimes like a cut
flower, slightly wilted, placed
again in water and revived by
liquid being pulled up
to stiffen the wilty bits, knowing
that someday I won't have
to try so hard.

late October aspens, afternoon

I cannot tell 
if the aspens are 
glowing with autumn 
or just the dying of the light

Elms falling slowly

Two elms, not just one but so intertwined that only their approaching death and the receding of the bark at the base of the trunk showed this: that they had once been separate before growing together into a towering, graceful glory, now tilting as their roots weaken on one side only, so they are falling slowly over, embracing one another still in this grand decline.  Another few steps reveal that a slender elm just past the sapling stage has split its trunk and is propping up two of their branches, and it makes me think of children growing up stronger and taller and broader and maybe one day holding their parents up to the appearance of strong, vertical straightness again until strength fails, parents fall, and children stand alone.

the new baby

Most parents check their newborns to see if all the parts are present and accounted for.  I cannot imagine what it was like for you, friends.  10 fingers.  10 toes.  A whole brain and intact skull.  Pink and not blue.  Breathing.  Alive.  Looking at you.  (You know, at least vaguely with those wizened old person faces and fathomless eyes.)  Not like the last one. 

This one will be easier to dress, too, limbs not already stiffening in rigor mortis, mottled with oxygen-deprivation blue.  The hat can be used for warmth and decoration, not to hide the fact that most of his skull and brain were not there. 

I am praying for the new baby and for you because this fallen world is so dangerous, and I don't want anything more to break your hearts because I am weak, and I just don't think I could take it. 

Health and wholeness and peace be upon you and your house, you and your living son.  And rest for your dead.

the lamb on the porch

When I visited your house, and you explained
the lamb on the porch represented your baby
who died when he was born without his brain
I almost lost it.  I was mostly keeping it together
until I saw that look on your face--the loss and
compassion that allowed you to carry that baby
to term and then let him go when so many other
parents can't handle the same thing--but I had
already committed to not being the damp one,
to not seeing the dead baby pictures I never
wanted to see whenever I saw your faces and
your swelling belly as you tried again to bring
a new life into this world and not, dear God
please not, another lamb onto your porch.

half-finished poem/prayer dissolving into laughter in July

May the sunlight on this perfect autumn day in July
burn out the rage and the ties that bind me to it.
May the wind in the leaves rustle with relief
and blow away all my resentment and anger.
May the semi-stagnant water of this channel
 . . .

Sometimes nature hands you beauty; other times it hands you the straight line, I guess.

Contemplation of moving (on)

Were I to leave, I would miss
this view of the trees and
the sounds of their leaves.

12 December 2013

The Snow Angel (Day 3)

inch of snow fell in the early morning
blurring your edges, softening the
painful cracks 
in the dry snow around you
now you are even more beautiful.

inch of             snow fell
again  early  this  morning
blurring your sharp edges,
all the painful
cracks in the dry
snow around you, and now
you are                  even more

Cast your vote. A or B? (You don't have to give reasons, but you can if you want.)

08 December 2013

made it back home safely. love, the hydrologic cycle

There is a kind of snow
small and hard that sifts
down onto the garages
and makes the parking
lot light look like a column
of fairy dust is sifting toward
it sparkling in a spotlight
pointed upward sending
a message back to clouds
from whence it came:

made it back home safely.
the hydrologic cycle

05 December 2013

02 December 2013

Oh, Fortune Cookie

On the day someone tried
to use my credit card number
to fund his or her Cyber Monday,
the fortune cookie says,

Today will be lucky and
memorable for you.

Hahahahahahaha.  Oh,
fortune cookie, you are
quite the kidder.