Last week
we had a foot of snow;
heavy snow that broke tree branches.
And yet, my tulips, halfway up,
and Scilla, already blooming,
covered by that same snow,
are out today
showy and cheerful and thriving.
Spring is relentless.
Try as we might,
it can’t be stopped.
Even when it’s painful
even when we aren’t prepared
even when we can’t, life goes on.
I see my grandson
at two,
running wild,
his orange curls
bouncing with each step.
He jumps and runs and climbs
with so much energy
so much fierce joy.
And I wonder
when do we lose that?
The breakneck rush
into the world
excited to go
to do
to see
to experience?
When do we become cautions,
of people
of the world
of our own selves?
We learn to
hedge our bets and
couch our opinions in qualifiers
so as not to upset anyone, anything.
We water down our desires,
expect less,
express less,
enjoy life less.
And how do we get it back?
That vibrant life,
that wild joy we all once had
My hair flaps in the wind
like a fist-full of grey ribbons,
as I stand on the ridge top
pouring curses
into the sky.
No one hears me,
which is lucky,
I guess,
unless
hearing is a good thing.
Unless knowing is a good thing.
All the happy families
curdle in my mouth.
Their photos curl
and singe at my touch.
A picket fence of sins
stretches
before me,
and I kiss each one
goodbye,
though I love them so.
Then I shiver out of my straight jacket
and run towards the event horizon of my life,
curious to see how it ends.
Take a walk around the lake
and think about things
Not your heart rate
or your calories burned
but the things you push out
of your mind
all the rest of the time
Like where have all
the years gone
how much time have you
exchanged for cash
and when will you begin
to live?
I walked up the hill
past the old climbing tree
and down the path
into the woods.
There is a deep layer
of dead, brown leaves
from last year,
maybe several years.
They crunch under foot,
like walking through skeletons.
Yet, the buds on the trees
are swelling, greening.
This is not morbid,
it simply is
the way things are,
life and death together.
Perhaps
our insistence
on separating the two,
on fearing and denying death
is what’s abnormal.
Today I will
fight against the chaos
of the world
today I will
write
today I will
read
today I will
paint
today I will
plant
a garden
today I will
give
food, blood, thanks
I am trying to concentrate on what I can do, not what is beyond my control. This isn’t quite right, but within the constraints of NaPoWriMo I will publish it, and hopefully come back to work on it sometime later.
#18
I have a lot of dreams,
lately
where I’m lost
and I can’t get to
wherever it is I need to be
Suddenly
things come up
distractions
complications –
baroque and convoluted
I’m off on a tangent
trying to fix
something
or solve some puzzle
and meanwhile
getting no closer
to where I’m meant to be
#19
We are tired
of staying home
of our own company
we are sick and tired
of hand washing and masks
soon we will be sick to death
#20
Yesterday
I planted a garden
I tilled the soil
until it was broken up fine
then I raked it smooth
I use the
broken handle
of a hoe
to space my rows
evenly
To make the rows straight
I use two stakes with
a piece of string
tied between them
I planted a row of
Sweet Ann peas
next to that
Red Bliss potatoes
(because who doesn’t want a little more bliss in her life?)
next Little Finger carrots
Detroit Dark Red beets
(though I live in Wisconsin)
and Mixed Heirloom leaf lettuce
Now I wait
and weed
and watch for miracles
I know this is supposed to be wordless, but I feel the need to explain. This is the stem of a rose; the last of a bouquet I received on December 23. The bloom is long since spent, but I noticed a green bit, so left the stem in the vase with water. Recently a very good friend died, somewhat unexpectedly, and I am choosing to see this as a sign of hope – of the miraculous.
In Other Words 