sun

drumming toward

solstice…

we  shimmer

gold

stretching toward

light

stumbling in

AWE 

our “Big Sky”

Minds

If merchants of darkness have captured the hills
and there truly is no help for us, your hair doesn’t smell like stars,
but the angels break apart like clouds pierced by sunlight,  

until this life, this world, almost makes sense.  

If we have lost our voices, if we’re unable to voice our losses
and our words dissolve like cotton candy, the silence tastes sweet
but there is no more to give to this stammered prayer  

until this life, this world, almost makes sense.  

If we’ve arrived at the desire for another world
and have only the tedium of electronics to offer our kids, God alone sees,
but our defeat and our suffering are beautiful, and so are you  

who make this life, this torn-up world, make sense.

Cry, sigh, live, love, die.
People live until they don’t. 
Love until they won’t. 

sunflowers facing
well, the sun.
popies redolent bees 
seem to have moved into each petal
full with flavor
smell from the hosta flowers
who knew this fragrance lives in such a leafy 
plant
not a farm nor a field
neither a park nor landscaper-tended public space
this is home the place where heart relaxes at best
speeds up often too, at the task of this beauty-
preservation as well as hope
for its future held fast
not always its fate, pulled back from the brink
the heart skips and flutters when realizing all that it takes
to persevere yet I do
trust in this and hold faith for what will outlive me.

                        “L’important ce n’est pas lieu où on se trouve,    
                         C’est l’état d’esprit dans lequel on est.” 

                                                                    –       French Proverb 

An earring hides somewhere (missing) in my car—
trace of silver & ice just as tiny as you.
Its presence is constant; its voice is pulsar.

That morning (after night) you messaged from afar;
I went searching within, shifting contents accrued
for the earring that hid somewhere (missing) in my car

under seatbacks & uprights, round both blankets & bars,
til one shimmered with sun—just the one, not the two
(still feeling its presence, voice constant & pulsar).

The one that I found murmurs quiet memoirs
from the dresser by my bed in sepia hues:
missing moments once hidden right there in my car—

heat of bodies & pressure, creating feldspar
between two (or just one), an alchemical brew,
that is missing; an earring hiding there in my car.

Its back at an angle, a broken au revoir
fingers can’t bend to shape—heart can’t help but construe
how your presence—inconstant—was a choice & pulsar.

I wish I could give you more than this escritoire—
a fragment of value beyond what has ensued
or an earring (all you’re missing) somewhere in my car

but you’re silent—I’m silent—& some things simply are
& some aren’t & cannot find hope to pull through.
So an earring is hiding—I am missing—& my car
whispers presence & constance; love’s voice yet pulsar.

1.    

You are in love with the professor            
on Gilligan’s Island, and from            
this show, you are introduced to Carmen,
to opera. In the future,
you will grow to love Don Giovanni
and The Marriage of Figaro;
meantime, you wish to become Marianne,
despite the fact that Ginger
is far more glamorous.

2.    

The Brady Bunch is a blended family
living in a mid-century home.
Along with their housemaid,
Alice, they fit conveniently
in a 3 x 3 square. You love Marsha,
though you are closer
in age to Jan. In one episode,
Marsha breaks her nose.
In another, as class president,
she invites Davy Jones to the prom.      

3.    

Lost in Space is on your list
of reruns. You are in love with Major West,
and covet Penny’s monkey.
Who wouldn’t want a monkey that bleeps.
You are afraid of Dr. Smith,
and depend on Robot to save you:
Danger, Will Robinson! Danger.

You call me on birthdays and bad days
To rehash the past and talk of our present
Together in heart but so far away

Your voice has the aroma
Of spring days on bicycles
sand and sea and first times
dusty carpet and weed

I’ve started dancing
while I cook and imagine
I am freer than I actually am
though just for a moment it sticks
the entirety brushed away
I emerge, in my mind, anew
as if I’ve finally awoken
no one else is here and I’m grateful
not so much due to embarrassment
but because it’s my own mini celebration
my place and my time
a difference

When sugar and spice
morphs into diabetes
and acid reflux.