shattered
sunrise
shattered glass
a thousand prisms
blooming
refracting summer
solstice rose rising
over rabbits and wrens
my open door
after a painting by Magritte
Of all the things I owe you—
including my life & the care you took to raise me
until I could raise myself—
I owe you most of all
my sense of how fragile things are,
how quickly they can end,
how nothing lasts.
You didn’t last—
neither you, Daddy, from heart disease at 53,
raving in your hospital bed
about rats in the room,
nor you, Mama, at 46,
on your way to work, rounding a curve
into the glare of a brilliant sunrise
& the rear of a stopped school bus
carrying my brother.
I rushed home both times—
from Yellowstone, from Basic at Fort Knox—
but you’d taken it with you
into the dark.
I’m older now than either of you,
your faces mixed up in mine,
getting old as you might have
if you’d had the chance.
Sometimes I look at a photograph of you
before I was born,
leaning on each other in a dusty driveway—
each other’s pillar,
pillars to sons soon to come—
& give thanks that I’m no one’s pillar,
fragile as I am.
Utah’s Wasatch Range forms the granite backbone
of the Little and Big Cottonwood Canyons, sculpted
by alpine glaciers during the last ice age. Wasatch
can mean low pass over high range, the way
a saxophonist stretches on tip toe to reach the high notes
and crouches to find the low notes. The mountains
have lifted and stretched after millions of years
of painless folding and faulting, wearing and tearing.
The sax player’s knees are sore after every concert.
I was working with the kid, as we stood there amid scattered stones gathered from the fields.
We were sorting them by size, and shape so as to surmise, the best use that each one of them might yield.
I meant them all to form a wall, straight and strong, tight and tall, along the drive that was the entrance to our place.
Replacing the rusted wire, of which I had grown quite tired; I hoped to remove it and leave no trace.
I’d just laid my hammer to a cope, when the kid glanced down the slope, o’er the hundred yards of walling yet to go.
“You know, this is stupid,” he then said, and he blithely shook his head, “this work is silly, old-fashioned and slow.”
It’s been two hundred or more years since, men learned to put up wire fence, yet here you have us banging rocks like Neanderthals.
I know I’m only here on hire, but we could have already strung the wire, and moved on,” and then he paused.
And in that frustrated pause, I smiled and said, just because, you don’t like this line of work,
Doesn’t mean it’s outdated, or it’s purpose antiquated, and I’m paying you to work it and not to shirk.
You may think you’re sharing wisdom, and perhaps there really is some, in the words that you spoke to me just now,
But, stop and think and maybe trust, I have cause to think this rust, that we’re replacing is a detriment some how.
First, it’s more than just need, but I’ll address your want for speed, since that seems to be your main concern.
By the time we finish this run of wall, we’ll have three months in it all, and what will I have in return?
I’ll have a solid sturdy fence that’ll stand for centuries hence, and if done right, no maintenance will it need.
Our work will outlive us, and though you sweat and fret and fuss, that has value! Even that you must concede.
And there’s beauty in these stones, the shapes and forms, the hues and tones, together paint a scene of which I can’t but be proud.
As I daily pass this wall, my eye will take in all, and I’ll think kindly of this time we’ve been allowed,
To spend together working here, to share our thoughts and our fears, and there’s no point in looking at the time,
Of course there’s faster ways, to spend our limited lifespan’s days, but to me the work is timeless and sublime.
Perhaps there will come a day, you’ll learn not to rush the time away, and just take joy in the moment while it lasts.
I assure you, when it’s gone, and you blindly hurry on, you’ll look back one day, fondly on the past.
There’ll be scenes that you relive, and so much joy will they give, that you close your eyes and revel in it all.
I know for you today, the end seems so far away, much like the end you envision for this wall.
You may think you’re smart and slick, but I tell you, it comes quick; quicker than we really like to think.
Through it all you’ve lightly ran, and just when you think you understand, you’re done, and it’s over in a blink.
I know it’s bull you think I’m spoutin’ and I can tell that you are doubtin’ but I tell you, it’s the surest thing I’ve learned.
You may hurry through life’s reading, and if you don’t take time for heeding, it’s too late, you find the page is turned.
So, if you keep walling to the end, I tell you, trust me here, my friend, you’ll look back one day with pride on what you’ve done.
You’ll hook your thumbs in your galluses, forget the sores and callouses, And say “‘twas no work at all!” It was fun.
And that’s the way of life, sure with troubles it is rife, but them’s the things that make it worth the while.
Just always do your best, and don’t worry ‘bout the rest, brace yourself and face it with a smile.
Where are the gifts the druids left?
The ones who came barefoot last solstice
with cherry pits in their pockets
and woodsmoke in their hair.
Where is the yarn looped
like a promise around the elder stone,
unraveled by rain
but still holding the shape of a wish?
Where are the pennies
dropped into the earth as if the land were a fountain
and time a debt to be paid in copper?
Where are the wildflowers,
plucked, bundled, offered,
laid soft at the foot of the Whispering Knight
who has held his tongue for centuries
and still does not speak?
Where are the pebbles, the rings,
the ribbons, the seeds,
the notes on crumpled paper,
the drops of oil, the buttons and wreaths,
the braid of rope wrapped three times
widdershins?
They are under the nettles,
beneath the rook’s call,
in the hollow behind the king’s left heel,
pressed into lichen like a kiss.
They are with the stones,
and the stones dream everything.
I am watching my past self through the window
She keeps busy making meaning, making memories
Making improvements, making it work
Hands full, and heart, as they say, in the crowded room
She can’t see me because to her, I do not exist
To me, she is legend, a god among men, iconic
(Kris Jenner controlling the narrative
Kris Jenner letting go)
I would pound on the window if I could
I would break this glass to reach her
Somebody tell her no one is coming
Somebody tell her she can trust herself
Somebody tell her things can be hard
And better at the same time
Somebody tell her I’m waiting
Somebody tell her thank you from me.
*”Always remember you’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”
– A. A. Milne
THIS
is the house
built by my grandmother
Broken, I am not.
for an unexpected grandbaby
that she filled with furniture
carried from Cincinnati after
passing through Pennsylvania
bought with her second husband
whose death from cancer
knocked apart
her second-chance holidays
but like clockwork, the Revlon tube
kept twisting
as joy spread from her eyes
to the hands she used
to pull weeds and cut crusts
from grilled cheese.
Her love! She offered.
oh, how she rocked me.
THIS
is the counter
she leaned against
cleaning her fingernails
remembering
her mommy and daddy,
smelling of Baby Magic
and Muguet Du Bois
before she stood a full shift
behind the station counter,
lifting beer,
restocking cigarettes,
Repetition, Repetition, choo-choo!
laughing with
professors, students,
and townies
who passed through her line,
but always saving something
-rotisserie hot dogs,
heart-shaped peanut butter cups,
paper decorations –
to share with me.
Building, I am still.
oh, how I hugged her.
