I listen to the river
and wonder,
can I ever learn her language?
Or the deep, quiet lake,
or the restless, rushing waves of the ocean.
Can I learn the language of the trees
as they whisper to one another on the wind?
Or the slow language of the rocks,
and the earth and the sands?
I watch the clouds
and listen to the wind,
but there is so much more than I can grasp. Still, I love to listen
My husband and I are moving house,
sort of. Maybe. But maybe not.
For who can move away
from 35 years of living?
What crate do you pack all your memories in?
How many boxes does it take
to hold a life?
A marriage?
A family?
This old house is only a place,
but it’s the place
where so much
of your life happened.
This new place does not have the spot
where your son took his first steps
or the spot where your daughter
lost her first tooth.
It doesn’t have the place on the stairs
where your children sat
when you overheard
your daughter asking your son to play Barbies
and your son answering
that he would,
for a quarter.
This new place does not have
the hallway you walked
all those nights
when the babies wouldn’t sleep,
or the spot where you stood
when you learned of
the attack on the World Trade Center,
or the door your husband walked through
when he brought home the stray dog
who became a part of the family.
It does not have the sunroom
where you slept every night
while recovering from knee surgery
and you couldn’t walk
up the stairs to the bedroom,
the sunroom where you sit
every morning
writing and reading
with your dog and your cat and your coffee.
And now you are old
and there isn’t enough of you left,
of your life left,
to make all the new memories
that will transform another house
into a home,
into your home.
Water, Earth, Air, and Fire,
Building blocks
and also, demolition tools.
Both the over-abundance
and the withholding
of these materials
can destroy
anything,
everything.
So why do we not take more care
of the ways we use
them?
And, of course,
they often remind us
of the many ways they are
beyond our control.
“Humans,
you are not
Masters of the Universe or
Rulers of the Planet or
Lords of the Land,”
they seem to me to say.
We have our place,
along with all the other creatures
amid beautiful,
terrible,
wonderous,
grand, and humble mix of
Water, Earth, Air, and Fire
Now, at the start of spring
Winter sends us one last blast
of cold. Like a dying
patient who rallies
just before he
finally fails,
finally falls
into whatever comes next
Though no one seems to mind
when Winter dies
Winter has one of those,
“it’s a blessing”
deaths,
though, when people say it
about a loved one
(theirs or mine)
I want to scream
or give them a slap
or both,
no matter the circumstances of the death
But the death of
Winter is
another matter.
After all,
we know that
Winter
will always
find her way back.
Underneath the surface
is where we find the monsters,
and the treasure.
Under the dirt, the rot, the slimy, wriggling things,
that’s where the proper monsters lie.
The ones we simply can’t face
because they are facets
of our own selves.
But just beyond the monsters,
if we kill them or
beat them or
love them
into submission,
is the priceless treasure
that will transform our lives.
There is so much
wrong with my society:
institutionalized corruption
institutionalized injustice
institutionalized sexism
institutionalized racism
Sometimes it seems the best thing
to do is to set the world on fire
and just start over.
But, of course, I would
never do anything like that.
Though, I might cheer softly
if you did.
Anyone need a light?
Today smells like spring
the rain is warmer
the breeze
gentler
The thick cloud cover
feels insulating, protective,
not threatening
Leaves are unfurling
still tiny
still the bright, new green
of young foliage
Grasses are greening,
springing up fresh with the rain
Last autumn’s dry bulbs
have burst to life
covering the hillsides
with blue and white blooms
The trees,
the grasses,
the wildflowers –
they were dead and now they live.
How can you say you don’t believe in miracles?
4-16-24
Humans are the worst
and the best,
sometimes.
But it seems they are usually the worst
when they get a bit more
power
and money
than they really ought to have;
than anyone really ought to have.
And when are humans
the best?
That’s a bit harder to predict.
Sometimes it’s when they are pushed,
sometimes it’s when they are happy,
sometimes it’s when they are broken,
sometimes it’s when they are loved.
Most times, though, it’s when they are understood.
Sometimes joy
is such a simple thing
a good book
a cat, purring on one’s lap
a brilliant sunset fading to dusk
warm socks in winter
And sometimes joy
hides her face
within the folds of sorrow
patiently waiting her turn
Here is a list of the things…
I love coffee, strong and black
I love sitting with my dog and my notebook early in the mornings
I love cinnamon
I love autumn
I love driving fast, in a car with manual transmission
I love sunsets, but everyone loves those, don’t they?
I love my family – do I even need to say that?
I love octopuses (yes, that’s the right plural form)
I love horses and cats and dogs and birds and most mammals
I love red wine and dark chocolate
I love elves and Hobbits and Dwarves
I love adventures and
I love staying home
I love campfires
I love thunderstorms, and snowstorms
I love grey, rainy days
I love sunny days
I love dragons
I love books and libraries and librarians (well, most of them)
I love kayaks
I love daybreak on the lake
I love paper and pens
I love lists with all the items are checked off
I love wildflowers
I love houseplants in terra cotta pots
I love trees, especially birch and maple
I love silver earrings
I love so many things in this world
I wonder, what do you love?
In Other Words 