On a July moring
Along a wooded path,
Silver sreams
Of summer light
Filtered through
Deep green
oak
maple
popular
leaves
Danced
Across my head and shoulders
Upon my back
With temporary shadow patterns
like freshly woven spider webs
Casting invisible delicate imprints
Of those who had passed–
Last night’s sun-hemmed clouds
recalled my sister’s topographical
globe, the Sierra Nevada a bumpy
brown ridge to run your finger down.
It was what I knew of the world.
Do I know much more today, though
sunsets like yesterday’s now bring
a sigh, a pause, a wondering of how
many more I will see, how many
more the Sierra Nevada will see
and an inkling of which question
is more important?
Not the harvest moon
prompting my husband
to ask for my hand
to dance in front yard
but this big full moon
who shines opposite
across the pond
causing me to fling
open plantation shutters
when I fill bathtub
with lavender salts
to offer my body
glowing as I
focus on receiving
light I need
in darkness
praying for lunar
cleansing and forgiveness
as I silence voices
echoing taunts I imagine,
wishing for peace
alone in a bathtub
stringing lines
into verse
This old house
has forgotten
how it felt to be
freshly painted
with shiny copper pipes
free of drafts, sealed tight
no cracks in the plaster
fissures in the mortar
gaps in the hardwood floor
but
This old house
remembers
how to amplify laughter
absorb tears
ward off nightmares
welcome friends
invite lovers to linger
keep secrets
and detect lies.
This old house
has seen better days
but still knows precisely
how to be a home.
I long for things I don’t have
I stare at greener grass
I wonder what it would be like
Then I take a deep breath and remember
Remember the sun shining
Remember my purpose
Remember
“One day”, I tell myself
“One day”, I repeat over and over
But for now I work
I make steps in the right direction
I try
And then maybe, just maybe
One day my grass will be emerald to someone else.
Where do all these pens come from?
Stupid question because the names are on them:
‘Bank of Rogers’
‘Ear Tier LLC’
‘East Wisconsin Veterinary Supplies’
I don’t know these places
A better question would be:
How did these pens get here?
I don’t steal pens
at least, I don’t think I do
Yet, here they are
Functional and handy
Great advertising
Standing amongst the marble stones
Pondering mortality.
My grandparents are here,
Aunts and uncles,
Many cousins.
Now there are more of my remembered kin here
Than those who still take breath.
These are my people.
Strange to feel more kinship
With the dead
Than the living.
To them I belong
And with them
I will someday be.
yes, the volume of non-living things is greater,
but the variety of kinds of
living things is greater yet
and when non-living and living interact
in nature so freely, so frequently,
the possible combinations near infinity
we eat animals that
had been living
we eat plants that
had been living
this is how we live,
this symbiotic exchange–
we give, we take,
they give, they take,
seems fair, plus
I can’t change this
reality, this
necessity
this is how things
actually work
here–like it or not
and now, I think
I understand what
I must do–
I will make
a BLT
