attack of pentameter (and other signs of spring)

the earth still breathes winter into the air
the sun exhales summer to meet it there
frogs shout lustily from their thawing ponds
and where these mingled breaths collide is spring

You can't spoil them at this age (4 weeks)

.
Because I held
the baby too much,
my shoulder is
sore from keeping him
on top of me (because
he is a flopper), and
my back and hip ache
from rocking him
(because he likes
to be held as you walk,
but I can't
hold him
safely
that way, so I
must become a
perpetual motion machine
as I sit, arms held up
with pillows).  I
have taken ibuprofin
several times, yet
still I ache
because I
could not
possibly
hold him
enough.
.

the moon that night

Wherever you are,
did you see the moon tonight?
Now spring may begin.

sharing

.

we take turns

rocking him

from one sleep 

to the next

as gently 

as we can

.

useful insomnia

Whoever said baby breathing
is a soothing, comforting sound
never held a 4-week-old still
twitchy and erratic and only rarely
breathing regularly, like a tiny,
slightly wheezy bellows felt
through the collarbone more than
heard, nor felt those sudden, startling
stiffenings that last for three seconds
of baby nightmare and then are gone,
replaced by even more labored
and erratic breathing, so you can't
tell if he's asleep because he's facing
away from you, so his daddy has
to check before he takes him away
to bed, and you can go back to yours.

spring in retrospect

Spring in the midwest
is a variable thing that can only be
determined in retrospect. 

We can back-date it to the day
after the last snowfall, wondering
with each new snow
if this one will

(finally) 

be the last.

in the balcony at the Christmas concert

.
the sharp
shadows cast
by emergency
lights above
the stairs
slice into
each step
and bury
all but
hints of
the beauty
of stained
glass windows
.

Found Poem - because it still doesn't feel like spring

I bought a book
of poetry this weekend
for myself,

and one
for [my daughter]
too.

Because it still isn't spring,
or at least
doesn't feel like it.

- LZC

above the road

.
Why does the moon seem
so much larger when it hangs
above the road?
.

why I love readings

.

feeling full and drunk

on literature again

good reading tonight

.

playing snow

.

snow falls

crawls up the

tree branches until

it's too much and they

roll and fall like campers

unfamiliar with the top

bunk and plop to the 

ground breathless

and laughing

.

why old people turn their cars so slowly

I think I am finding out why old people turn their cars so slowly.  If they're anything like me, and they are tearing at the seams, a hard or even moderately fast turn--especially over a jouncing entry point not on the level with the street--changes the vectors or shifts the inertia or some other science-y force-related thing, and it puts pressure on joints that can no longer bear pressure without complaint.  So if you are ever feeling irritated at elderly people taking their sweet time making that turn off the street at 2 miles per hour, have some sympathy for the irritation their joints feel even at that slow crawl.

a second tear is diagnosed

.
I did not expect this
gradual tearing like
some delicate
piece of lace or
late autumn leaves
or the wings of
butterflies and
moths
.

practice makes perfect

.

maybe life is practice letting go
because there's nothing
you can hold on to when you leave

.

March waltz

ice forming on puddles of meltwater as the shade
stretches out as the sun goes down

spiky points of crystal scabbing over
slowly

finally rest

.

Between the emergency 

sirens, the night is silent 

as snow falls with 

single-minded intent:

to cover everything 

and then finally 

rest.

.

this picture

I'm only sorry I cannot take
and share this picture

of tree top frosted
in snow and light

framed in the office window.

snow is magic

.

I will know I am too old 

the day snow stops 

seeming magical to me.

.

Winter Wound

The tree outside the corner of the building, trapped in an acute angle of ugly 80s architecture, was thriving.  I admired the close-up view of its limbs in all seasons, this most recent season spread with snow.  It must have been too close for some because one day I passed and saw the bright, raw wounds of hacked-off limbs now more distant than before and fully bereft of snow.  And I told myself I couldn't start crying in the hallway at work even if I felt like someone had just callously and with business-like efficiency taken a knife to a friend of mine.  It must have been scratching the glass or pounding on it right next to that lady in the corner's ear. It wasn't like they'd cut us on purpose, fully knowing.  They probably didn't even think of it, didn't see it that way, didn't know how much it would hurt us.  They didn't know, I told myself, wiped my eyes, sniffed, and started limping a little more slowly to my next meeting.

driving in a winter wonderland . . .

when it comes to driving
walking in a winter wonderland
is better