Tonight the fireflies are innumerable,
the sloping field in front of the house
dances with their presence
and as day gives up its light
the brighter planets appear
and the milky way begins to spill it stars
across the southern sky.
The grand sweep of our slice
of the universe is the evidence
that we have always had,
before telescopes
before the theory of relativity,
that our lives are fragile and brief.
There is certain beauty
in seeeing how little we tip the scale
Frogs call
I wait in the punctuated dark while
lightning bugs tease my imagination
with promises of fairies if I follow
those flashes,
beacons of dreams and damage
anything I can fathom
anything my mind cooks up
pulled from the depths of past
pleasures or past pains.
I sit still
listen
trills and eeks and
banjo string plucks of green frogs
echo, and nothing
I envision while entranced by bugs
daring me to step into the woods or
while hypnotized by longing amphibians
is darker than when I head inside and
open my phone.
I read somewhere
that we’ve become
so obsessed
with the way our lawns look
the verdant, featureless green
[bile-inducing, if you ask me]
that we’ve no habitats for the pollinators.
The bees and wasps, butterflies and moths.
So I set aside a corner of the yard
and I let it grow wild.
I had a neighbor ask
“Do you want me to take care of that?”
“No thanks, I want it that way.”
In the fall
I piled all my leaves up
and when my daughter was done jumping
in and running through
I left them there.
They are good compost
and coincidentally-
one of the best habitats for
firefly larvae. You don’t see as many
as you did in the early 2000s.
But in my yard
blinking yellow lights
first one in the neighborhood
early June.
They sell these little pies that can fit in your palm and only cost 84 cents and when I feel like throwing a fucking fit I get one of every flavor (sometimes two of the blueberry) and stuff my face like Henry VIII
then I go to straight to bed and wonder why I have trouble sleeping
If you were alive today, would your fig tree be an abundance of pickings?
The trunk is a fat engine: a world of energy, of engineered solutions for optimized solutions to minimize uncertainty and risk. The low-hanging branches are leaves of sustainability, drinking the warmth of the sun so it may exhale with life. The engine keeps these leaves alive, tasked to create more green, to drink more sun.
Another branch is as lithe and inky as a pen: a canvas of color, blooming with delightful smells along the twiggy wood, fragile and beautiful. Each flower follows different patterns and paths, shivering with truth and knowledge. One flower whispers to be a doctor of philosophy, another exclaims to be a poet, and another shyly admits to be a fiction writer. Their stories are alive, pollinating the air.
A different branch has matured: strong and stable, ripe with juicy figs, but far too high to reach by myself. Some figs are bruised, therapized by the protected young figs, inspired to let go and fall so it may be hugged by a human palm. Other figs are plump and hardy, ready to burst with juices so it may speak about its humble fig journey and inspire fellow fruits.
Which branch would you pick, Sylvia?
As I wait for an answer, leaves and flowers and figs fall down by my feet, one-by-one, wrinkled and dead, until there is nothing left to pick.
This poem is not about me,
or you, or us, or anybody,
or anything shared amongst
anyone. This poem is not
about space or loss or time;
this poem is not a poem,
and I am not the speaker,
and you are not you.
This poem is not a poem,
or a journal entry, or a confession,
or an extradition; you are
not a priest, I am not
a confessor, and there is no reader
to speak of.
Sleeping past my alarm
Hiding under the blankets
The lullaby on the window
The horses splash among the mud
My shoe squishes in the grass
The party must go on
The fear of summer ending
Already approaching my brain
Like thunderclouds rolling in the sky
Can a hard day be a good day?
All my days are hard since my son died
Deep sadness, tears, raw and battered heart
But good moments give me a glimpse of happiness
Coffee with a dear friend, a purring cat in my lap
hearing from my oldest son, friends showing their love
in many different ways, spending time with my husband
All beautiful moments but the grey cloud of grief still lingers
I have heard that it gets better but right now it takes a lot
of energy just to make it through the day
Can a hard day be a good day? Yes, it can
