Shadow

This year
there was a shadow
that blocked the view
on some brilliant and usual days.

Even when the sun was bright
and the moon launched silver
into the night with mystical happiness,
the shadow, it seemed, was always there
like some sort of dark eclipse
no one wanted to see.

In the new year
we will find joy in all the right places,
around every corner;
a new shadow of light
over the corners where cobwebs
can't imagine crawling with their long
and invisible legs.

This sparkling blue snow
under flashing fireworks
and wide-eyed hope,
already shines unashamed on faces
that blush, smile and offer us
a kindness we almost forgot
when the shadow
distracted the seekers;

a passing cloud
and a storm we endured.

So Much More

We gathered under one roof again
just before the turning of the year.
My children are home.

Christmas was late this year
according to some other calendar
for families sliced and divided by
another kind of love
and loss.

None of it matters when we laugh
and open our gifts with each other.

It is enough to sit around the table
with fresh and home made food
we picked up from farmers at the local market.
French bread and cheese,
chicken and potatoes,
eggs and butternut,
carrots and chocolate.

We are warm in the cold.
We are loved for who we are.
We are so much more together.

Cold

Below zero
doesn't happen in Vermont every day.
December dips lower than the horizon
and we shiver to the center of this darkness.

It is cold
with the moon bright
on the icy pack of the last snow.
We walk, crunching loudly
toes stiff and stumbling
toward the fire.

Look up at the sky
and see the Dipper
and the Belt of Orion.

Feeling the sting on my face
is an awakening to all that is beautiful
if I can open my eyes.

In The End

In the end
everything is silent.

There is no distraction
of breathing or the beating
of the heart against the walls
of your body.

In the end
everything is light
enough to cast into the wind.
Ashes and feathers and love
fly together
without even giving it
a thought.

In the end the voice drifts
into the back of the mind
until the smell of vanilla
walks into the room
with her hands on her hips
and asks

"Are you here?"

Holy Days

The vapor of your face
is a thread
knotted
to a small memory.

The voice I hear

immune to the lightning
and crash ending we all know
in slow motion
and so very violent.


The phone call home
on Christmas night
was heavy as granite and pictures
with a broad understanding
of what little remains
after each breath.

The lungs begin to fill,
sit parallel in the chest,
and are so very close
to the wisest heart.

What grief now lives
on the alter of each precious day
raised above your head
like the host
at Midnight Mass?

Christmas Eve Before the Storm

Quiet and waiting for the sky to drop all her stars
softly after the ice landed like magic
on the tender Vermont trees,

my children are scattered
here and there like winter
and the next Alberta clipper.
I know the storm coming
in my bones and belly.

While I listen to old Bing Crosby
sing "Silver Bells"
I am thinking of my Navy father
and the way that he always
made it home for us
on Christmas morning.
No matter how far away,
he was there
with the tree
and lights at dawn.

Tonight with the crooner's smooth voice
lulling me into this dream of another night,
I can't get Daddy out of my head
on the morning I was six or seven,
maybe before my sister was born,
asleep in his black and white robe.
It was Mayport, probably 1970,
and he didn't wake up
no matter how excited I was
to show him my new blond Barbie doll.

His face was so still and quiet
while I waited for the miracle of his return
to wake up and notice the life
he was making for us all.

Blowing on the Fire

When

I slow down,

take in

the breath

I am

getting ready.



It is in

these moments

of inner silence

that I feel

the earth

rumble

in my belly

while I consume

the air

for these

next steps.



I am not

holding on

to love

anymore.



I will not

stop

the flow

of the wisdom,

from this belly

that will not

let the fire

go out.



My hands and heart

are

warmed

by the flames

that roar

inside

this body

while we laugh

at all that we have

become.

Prophecy

It is at a window on Main Street, Vermont
where I come to the ugly edge
of the end of all ends,
to the prophecy of closing the door,
awake dreaming of the goodbye.

Here we are in the dark and smoky mirror,
gray and looking at each other,
whispering in quiet code,
predicting the clean cut
of the golden cord.

Say something,
anything that will allow God
to take notice
and send the angels
in time to carry our father
into the roots
of this earth
he loves.

Prayer with the body
dances with death;
ready for the separation
from the skin.

First Snow

It begins again;
the white of snow on the open field
after the flock of turkeys dance
together in their loving way,
then depart into the arms of the forest.

The white begins
like a simmer of an idea,
hope and dread,
in the eye of the beholder.

We spot the first flakes,
almost an oasis in this deserted time of waiting.
The darkness threatens to devour all light
in the rationing of fewer and fewer days.

Those of us who have traveled
to the edges of never know
the hope of each glassy miracle,
falling, millions of bodies transformed water
witnessing the sky
as a child born
laughing at another chance
to live in the images
of God.

Water's Twin

Who will I call to when this super moon
has opened fully to the sky
and I am crazy for the sea?

I imagine again
that I am a lone she-wolf
who wants to howl,
but dares not.
There is so much to lose
when you have nothing to give.

Instead,
I curl into myself
in the warmth of some stranger’s cave
and wait for the silence of the night
to protect the savage longing
I have been given
for something Holy.

What should I expect?
The truth is,
I am the twin of the waters,
born in the late winter
of another woman’s life.
I must soak in the heat
of that enormous love
before I can give myself
to anyone.

Hold me
on the edge
of the wide horizon
so that we might welcome the sun
at the quiet of the civil twilight

between the shore
and the raging ocean
of every sacred partnership
we will ever know.

Here we can only flow
from the voice of God.

A Poem for Us

If we were neighbors,
I would walk over this morning
and ask you to read this aloud to me.

I would likely bring my steaming cup,
milky and sweet,
to keep my hands warm against the frost
and to keep my focus
on the words of the poet,
my teacher, open.

What gratitude I have for you, Dear Friend.
You love the mysterious way our dreams are woven,
something out of almost nothing,
ideas bumping into everything.

Between us and the imagined twilight,
suddenly the world is all poem.

Thanksgiving Eve

On the night before Thanksgiving
my heart flies open
so grateful for the moonlit ways
love is all around me,
in me.

On the night before Thanksgiving
I turn up Purple Rain
and dance in my kitchen
while I blend pumpkin
with ginger, fresh eggs,
and milk from a can.

How did I learn to make crust
flakes with unsalted butter and unbleached white flour
when I wipe my hands on my apron
like all my aunts and my mother
who only used the luxury of Crisco?

The turkey is in the brine
for the meat eaters. The beans
and Brussels sprouts will be roasted with extra virgin
before the potatoes are mashed and whipped
and we always admire the view of the table
lit with candles.

On this night before Thanksgiving
my sons have scattered with all the ways time
disappears. My daughter will arrive under the cover of dark
with her sweet lover. I am lost in the undertow of grief
and can't catch my breath. Perhaps the bread will save me.

And, as if it isn't enough,
this may be the last eve for my father
as he catches all the breath
that has been given to him. Thanks be.
Thanks be given.

What a feast we will have.
What a feast.
What?

Hold my hand tonight.
It is the only prayer I can remember.

Expand Love

Gracious mother of all hearts
I have come to this chamber
seeing aromatic peace,
incense that wraps her love
in quietude. Words will not change
the vicious scraping of the strings
with a dry bow.

The orchestra is without a chaplain again
and I am carving the insides of my memory
like I am some sort of chaplain
sitting with the bruises and the bites
of truth and wonder if you will wash me away
with a new song.

My Holy Mother
who witnesses the learning
that comes from death.

We are forgiven.
We expand love
with every moment.

The Fifth

On most days

I was content to be silent,

the observer,

as if it might be possible

to play the keeper of time,

capturing small particles of delicate exchanges

in a glass jar filled with the light of mothy memory.



At the edge of the open flame of the last days of caring,

the color of your lips came together,

your remarks clipped,

about needing something soft from me again,



the words I never noticed are unhinged,

fish bones in my throat

until they tumble

and crash into dozens of shards,

needles of glass exploding on impact.



My hand rocketed to cover

the damage done

and I could not take back all the ways

each syllable stood naked with meaning

like sour milk dreaming.

curdled abruptly

between us.

There was no way to ignore lump of truth

that could have been love

had I kept my mind in the darkness

waiting for the moment of recognition

to pass.

Hunger

It creeps up on me
this emptied lack of life,
nourishment of the morning and midday
gone.

It wasn't much to start with
and now my belly is empty,
alone and groaning through a long night
like a tired old dog waiting
for anyone to come home.

My pockets are empty.
My head has forgotten
the last time I whistled.
My heart hits these ribs
like a prisoner clanging
the last tin cup
that was ever
made.

Exhale

Exhale and watch as this crown melts,
dripping down to the dusty place of wisdom
like tears of gratitude
for all that has been given.

The moon is the mother
who always smiles,
blesses us so gently with her cool hand
on the most fevered brow.

Anger and betrayal
have no place where this knowing
nods and forgives
gathering us into the arms
of all time.

We all eventually learn to glow in the night,
stars landing in the middle
of the universe we have become.

When I learn to let go
I see everything.
Everything.
Every
thing.

Calling

When I am still as I am in this moment
I can hear the urgent grasping of the copper leaves
when the heat of summer holds tightly to a small clammy hand
and the eventual crystals of winter have not yet gathered at the feet of all the oaks.
The crisp bodies rattle together, so familiar with the dimming light.

When the rains of some tropical place tumble in
as an unexpected guest,
interrupting the frost with floods,
breaking the connections of our voices
like birds lost in migration,
I dream of my father and his fragile bones
fighting to stay above ground.

He calls me in the morning to ask me about the skies
and my sons until he can’t hear me and hands the phone back
to my mother. I panic like I did
before 8 a.m. thirty years ago when the rates were lowest
and he called just to see if I was in my room next to the ringer.

His voice so certain I would answer.

It is the same way he soaked the cast off his arm
the day I was born
so he could hold me softly without tears,
without needing to keep anything from me.

His word was that good.

With each syllable of an idea
he whispers little handfuls of life’s stories,
clings with all his strength to the swaying shadows
before he drops away from the tree
calling out with the last breath
toward all the heaven he could ever imagine.

To Angry Prayers

This cascade of fragmented fear
wanders into the building
with another weapon I didn't expect
and, as you might imagine,
this bloody scene
winnows away all
my peace of mind.

I cannot meander quietly
festooned with an absent smile
while the thundering skies break
into gunshots and sirens.

I have traipsed on a prayer
that was once a supple friend
in hands holding beads
in a sacred space
and instead have thrown them all
into the crevasse of pain
and slippery suffering.

I will cut my hair
with the thresher's blade,
my tresses dropping
to the cold floor
in the harvest
of so much grief
and disbelief.

Telling Time

Let me blunder through another day
mourning the tinny honey of my words.

"I'm fine. I really am fine."

God, or something of that spirit, sits with me and pats my hand
when I say what I have learned.

Fine sadness, is delicate porcelain between my fingers,
steaming with hot tea and not enough to say.

"He would have been 21 today."

The warbler has taken the attention of the funeral director
as he tells me the story of his son.
I am patient in the loutish silence we share.
It is not a lofty place where we shine without fault.

We wallow in the opulent ashes
and the smell of the last breath,
all witnesses of something we'd forgotten.


This is part of the deal we make
to be in human time.

Twenty One

At dusk in the garden
I listened for you
and your gentle cry
chirping with the wax wings,

in the whispers of a warrior hummingbird
coming close to the bee balm
as if to call my bluff

as if I had a vision
twenty one years after
the vapor of this short life.

The ghost of you is here
in the flowers and in two candles,

for birth
for death.

The darkness is lit
by northern lights
and a sliver,
the silver moon.

Nearing Sleep

Just before midnight
pass me the password in a kiss
knowing that oxygen helps us to banter
over the din of anger and hurt.

Deliver the digits
in a whisper
between your teeth,
like a savior
waiting for God
grovelling like a fish
out of water.

My obscene laughter
is naked and forms blasphemy
in my throat.

Just before midnight
the moths make their way through
the July crack in the screens.

Send them all back to the fire.
The flame is where we all deserve to burn.

Ordinary Time

This pristine day
blunders along
unaware of the brilliant luster
more ordinary than most.

In this time where melancholy is my neighbor
I cannot ask to borrow any sweetness
for there is no paying back
this set of honest hours.

I am stupified by how crowded love can be in summer
and how fast the sun moves across the skies
and the darkness of the other side of the moons.

Put your hand gently
at the curve of my low back
if you dare
and take my hand
so that you might guide me
into the steps
of another dance
where we are
belly to belly
looking into the eyes we know
reflect the unconditional truth.

My mind is askew in these unfamiliar moves,
but my heart knows the way
like the cows
to the smell of golden fresh straw
and the quiet of the barn
at deep dusk of fireflies
in July.

Tender

Perhaps it is the strength of my Norwegian bones
that unleashes the tremors
when green is overfilling the places
between leaves with more green.

The allure of the longest day
thunders in my head
like a voracious hunger
that only light can satisfy.

My body aches with the echos
of a mournful, empty sob
of relief after months
of so much blinding white.

I sweep my arm along my face,
over my ears at the buzzing and bites
that begin to itch.
My hands useless
covered with dirt
that was found
where pumpkins
and sunflowers
will germinate.

The tender roots
rivulets of life
in the warm soil.

Here I watch the ghosts
of my love flow past me
chanting an ancient familiar song.

Death is a false door
to this Valhalla.

The Day You Were Born

On the day you were born
nothing ordinary happened.

Even while the moon
turned to golden blood

and the horizon
was only a flimsy diversion
to all the pain of every birth,

I pleaded with the heavens
to release me from the grip
love held on my tired womb.

The residue of God
could not be washed away
even in the dark waters
of knowing everything
would eventually end.

This ticking clock of my body
sounded and the bells rang out
to announce your arrival
on a path we have all walked.

We didn't know it then,
but it was the birds who knew your name
before you arrived with the feathers of angels
imprinted on your feet.

It was the birds who sang loudest of all
pointing at the red heart fluttering in your chest
like it was the first day of spring
in the first garden every dreamed.

Drifting

The mind splinters again
thinking of all that I've done alone
and what is left undone.

I am swamped by the cluttered clouds
gathering in the west
and I lurch around in the churning waters
of an unknown overwhelming grief.

Here I am
scudding along before the storm
like a child trying to outrun the beast
in a bad dream.

I swash my morose mouth with soap
frowning while I wait
in another silent life preserver.

After Life

This body is unfurling and fruitful
as a day in July,
nectar flowing from my fingers,
my skin brushes against the creamy air
and heat of the day.

I could chirp as I migrate into cells
to rescue the part of me that almost died
after I lost my way in the explosion of sorrows.
The stranger held hostage while organs of joy shut down.

In deepest grief, I see the antennae of a butterfly
close as each blue feather of color
flakes away from the tiny wires
so she can fly.

I hold back a sneeze
looking at the sun.
The breath escapes.

Laughter is nearly inevitable
in this jungle of summer.
If my mouth opens,
who knows what songs
I might learn to sing.

It is Always Somebody's Birthday

Spring celebrated this week.
Another tease with fifty on the thermometer Tuesday,
only to get windy and colder again on Wednesday.

Mother Nature didn't mean to be this grandiose in her belly.
It's just hard to wait for daffodils to be born
when the snow scrambles, seemingly invincible,
and we all shudder against the another blizzard.

Nonetheless, on days like today,
when the sap is running like a river of joy
and the sun shines on the gluttony of maples
in the icy deep of March,
we step up boldly with a steaming mug of love
and sing "Happy Birthday" at the top of our lungs.

We give a toast to new life and ask the black bandit of time
to leave all our treasure alone for the moment
while we rock our precious children awake with gratitude
for the story of another day.

He Fell

He fell.
The leg crumpled
under the body
and he fell
hard onto the bathroom tile.

Thudding and crying out,
he fell and grips the fear.
The crash draws me into the dragging pain.

He fell.
The leg crumpled
under the body
and he fell
hard.

Birthday Poem #52

It happens every year, like clockwork.

Time sneaks up on me in the ritual
dedicated to the promotion of my continued story
and laughs at the opulence of this joy.

My feet walk on this sacred ground
with gratitude and wonder.

I have never been so happy
to devour this sweetness
like a child hungry for more.

Lopsided Love

The parade of winter patrolling near the edges of this thaw
is sweaty under layers that shutter and shiver like a flu.

I want to trust the bounty of this unexpected warmth,
but spring is lopsided as a hungry salesman
aiming for the green of new cash.

This February pastiche
tastes funny. Cotton candy that melts
on the tongue and then is bitter.

If March is true,
I will be loyal and endure without fail,
I will be the cautious lover and not won over
until the honor of my trust is proven.

Dreaming of Vermont

February flakes are as big as saucers here
and so white and soft we forget
we are not in a dream where we have a life in Vermont.

In that dream there would be chickens and a garden.
The white picket fence would never need painting
and would only keep the dogs and deer out.

We are all smiling and wear smocks and pressed aprons.
Boys know how to mend a lost button
Girls get to ride their blue bikes to school every day
with no fear of being flattened by careless semi drivers.

We are not medicated.
We do yoga because we like it.
We are kind to elders.
We are vegetarians most of the time.
Bread is crusty and cheese is local.

In the morning I will pick up my shovel again
and scrape the walks clear of all that gathered in the night,
pretend it didn't happen, and bless the sky for every fresh feather.

Valentine's Day

When love comes gnawing at my ankles on nights like this,
it is plausible that the shaven head of the life I have chosen
is glancing around at the party to see if any of this hunger
is justified.

When my daughter demands with no sarcasm, "Next time, let me choose for you.
You are not good at this." I might just let her dress me
in some other joy, woven of the finest gauze and with adorable wings
for movements quick as a humming bird
and twice as fierce.

With armor made of feathers and plenty of air to breathe,
who wouldn't swoop near dandelion fluff
just to watch it scatter seeds
into a great big world of sexy sky?

Instead, I lick the envelope
and slowly seal the card into place
with my initials and a heart ready to burst.

Malingerer

The suspicious passenger
that leaks bloody evidence
onto my clothes,
rides close to my heart
like a weaver interlacing threads
as craftily as a spirited spider.

My thoughts are blistering
with anxious and yeasty fumes
in a chalice lifted to the lips of friends
at the end of a sorrowful meal.

The bruises malinger
after the bandages and steri-strips
fall away in the shower
and this right breast rests,
standing alone as a promontory
on the coast of a forgotten land.

I slip my bra over the wounds
and cinch the garment tight. I cradle the softness
in my two hands and soothe myself by singing.

The crying infant will eventually fall asleep.

White

This cavernous winter
thunders with love,
abounding with the mystery
of everywhere.

When I danced in my kitchen at 10 a.m.,
no one but me
watching the snow fall again
and again, my heart thundered with the motion
of God within.

Others may falter and lack the wisdom
of all the ways the blessings of this body
can scatter what has come to plunder
motion.

Do not be nervous.

We dance to celebrate snow,
and cold does not touch us
when we move in time
to the music of some other
white heaven.

The Call

The phone rings softly.
The moon is a constant friend.
So much to say, Love.

More Snow

Even laughing hurts
after the mountains of snow
are shoveled away.

Shoveling Solo

On nights alone like this,
February is most beautiful.

The moon reflects the bluish snow
as I toss shadows of weightless worry
over the banks with my plastic shovel
balanced perfectly in my over-mittened hands.

It is 11 degrees and the slightest wind
blows frozen misty feathers
back into my face.
I am delighted at how fresh it feels
to have this ocean of white
rise like a tide in Maine.

But we are in Vermont tonight,
near the fullest moon in February,
and I nearly howl I am so happy to be shoveling
with no artificial illumination
to block my view of the sky.

No Matter

Perhaps God will strike me down
for the skittering mind that has me bargaining
for my own life.

Is it blasphemy to want to be spared,
or at least ask for no harm to come to my father
or my own vintage flesh?

I have brushed with death a thousand times
and clamber for more of that suffering
it seems impossible to measure.

Today, when the end of my life seems approachable,
I linger at the doorway and pray for the cells to reverse themselves
and give up my love for only the one who will love me
no matter what.

Inconclusive

This round of testing
is like hazing.

The medical professionals
churn and turn you around
with words like benign and papilloma,
the narration of a story we've all heard before.

There is no good ending for the yokel daft enough
to believe they have come to this medical mecca
for healing.

The oration of each practitioner
uses postures and procedures
that dwell in the obscene.

In the beginning all I want are answers.

By the time I leave, all I want is my life
to be in the same simple body
I will eventually leave behind.

Forgive Me

This is just to say
that I am waiting for the lab results
that they told me would arrive
no later than Tuesday

and which we are hoping
tell us the tissue they removed
is benign.

Forgive me, I am distracted,
and my mind is a jumbled,
so worried
and so very tired.

-nodding to Dr. William Carlos Williams

Two Days After

Two days after the whipping of the biopsy
I am sobered at the bruised and blemished
diagnostic damage to my breast.

The skin is mingled with purple,
or nearly black,
where it once was milky and soft.

When I carried my babies in a sling
near this locket of love,
I testified with conviction
that my body was a miracle.

Even now, my faith is not splintered
and I will not plunder my hope on fear.

My body, a miracle to have given so much life.

Still it has room to make more love
with the spectacular abyss of this stranger
in these intimate cells.

Listening to Angels

This ravenous requiem in my own body
splinters my mind with a whirlwind
of unknowing.

This music deafens my usual calm
and I am jostled with each unhinged idea
of what the cells might be doing to harm
the peace that used to live in harmony
so close to these bones.

The brindled bargains don't match
the solid deals I once thought I had locked into
and knew exactly what to expect.

I can not finesse the truth
of a breast swelling with odd configurations
that will not nourish me.

I can almost hear the angels whispering my name,
but not loudly enough to make me turn around.

The Biopsy

The damage has already been done
when you find yourself stranded
after the mammogram and ultrasound.

They've seen everything
your breast transparent
as an old slip,

the old white t-shirt wet
with friction and some virulent strain
of death.

In the old days
any woman would call a truce
and put up her hands to end things

before a wire as thick as radio antenna
is inserted into the skin under her nipple
where nothing will ever flutter again.

It is time for vespers
when the radiologist and third year medical student
ask you to raise your hand over your head
as they dive into the ocean of your body,
deep into the sacred places
near your open heart.

Coffee (According to WCW)

So much depends
upon

the electric tea
pot

steaming with hot
water

beside the waiting French
press.

Here Am I

My God, how I feel like Brother Job today.
My lover struck down from the fighting
My father on his death bed
My breast torn open and filled with sickness
My nation divided into a million shards of broken glass.

I dare not call to you today
with the names of my children in my mouth
for fear you will take them from me.

I dare not ask you the question
"Am I not carrying enough?"
or
"Have I not loved you enough?"

Oh God, here am I,
Your beloved daughter,
the mother of angels.

Here am I.

Shut the Door and Say Goodnight

Something harsh rushes past me tonight.
Perhaps it was the wind, a cold draft of the unknown,
making herself known.

I close my eyes for a moment of creamy peace
where I can feel myself sinking into the earth.

I have learned to simply melt from this body
into something greater than the wind,
like I am floating in a sun-warmed summer pond
and looking up into the blackness and stars.

Here, I am a reflection of that sky
walking backwards down the hall where nothing happens.

At the end of it all,
I will just shut the door and say goodnight.

Comfort Quilt

This quilt is so full
of love and kindness like all bees.
These colors will heal.

Choose

Choose to do something nice
if you do anything at all.
Kindness is like an armful
of daisies or dandelions in the fist
of a child.

Pray for healing
and for the courage to say no.
Suffering is part of being in these bodies,
and we must learn to gently apply salves
to all the wounds that damage us every day.

I want to be meek as a morning
rising from the horizon.
Gold and glory are as simple as light
and we blink at the beauty of a new day.

Love one another.
Have I mentioned, love one another?

Love with your heart pressed to the earth
and you hear the gurgling belly of life
lift from the ashes and dirt
into the cells that can't help
but find one another in a crowd of knowing God.

My Mother's Breast

Sadly, this medicine will not heal me.
Brave as I might be, liberation comes from the surrender.

I am bereft at the twilight of another battle
and my breast is no longer round and full as it was when I offered it
to all of my babies,

but instead I am left with a concave pocket
into which radiation and chemicals flow.

I put up my fists
and will not flinch
as they remove the damage.

These cells will go into hiding
in my lungs or liver.

In thirty years or so, open up the chest full of the serpents
and let them take this body while I depart into nothing.

No Ending

My belly is full
like a woman big with child.
Birth knows no ending.

Sanctuary House

On Sunset Lake Road
Love is spoken fluently.

God lives in this house.

What Can't Be Explained

God
Pain
Anger
Fear
Disappointment
Hunger
Love
Prayer
Distraction
Silence
Calm
Joy
Loneliness
Kindness
Desire
Change
Ego
Beauty
Death
Life
Birth
Green
Breath
Empty
Open
Loss

The Sky Empties Herself

The sky pleaded all day to start the weather event.

In January, that can mean anything here.

Farmers talk about it.

Strangers fill spaces with talk about it.

Children long for abundant, beveled edges to transform sputtering
into a beehive of flakes and flurry white as anger.

And we who work worry about the walks and drives
that fill a bushel basket full of fear,
just to arrive at the lopsided teetering lives

bludgeoned by obligation and benefits, not a true reward.

Tonight the sky empties herself willingly,
with ice and forceful snows,
until we manage to sleep in the silence
of not knowing anything, but how to simply surrender.

Shaping Dough

My often pristine kitchen
shimmers tonight with the simple dust of flour
so that I might try, step by step,
to capture a whiff of France
in a new recipe for baguettes.

I have built a fortress of love
around skinny loaves
so crusty, with perfect hollows for butter,
that I risk my own curvaceous fears
to shape this dough into a thing of beauty.

Now, near midnight, I am a crane at the edge of the estuary
waiting for the moment of golden perfection
to snatch the hot bread out of the oven
and deposit it to cool.

In the morning, my boy will slather this experiment
with apricot jam and ask me when I can bake like this again.
I will hide my hands in my apron pocket around the magic proportions
listed on parchment
like I have earned a new diploma.

Immobile

I watch you all day.

You are lop-sided and aching for a wafer and wine,
communion the hammock beneath your hip,
plundered by time and your own body.

I watch you all day.

You are withered and industrious
as you loop your toes under your damaged leg,
immobile and lacking infrastructure
and compromised immunity.

The medical plan forecasts pain
like a chameleon
who can't predict her beauty.

Touch the generous breast of any mother,
and warm milk will flow to heal you,
to strengthen you,
to find the way
to your strength,

that industrious path
to so much love.

At the End of the Day

At the end of the day, it is so good to be home.
Home, with comfort of flannel sheets, fresh pjs,
grapefruit juice, cranberry toast,
and the music I make for myself.

At the end of the day, breathing in and breathing out
are more beautiful than any friend or lover.
Even exhausted, there is the eager breath.

And when it is all said by rulers and rule breakers,
I turn off the world and sink into the peaceful sleep
of a night that cares nothing for anything
but the morning when she arrives
to take over with a new beginning.

Take the Train to Tomorrow

How many times have we traveled to the City of Lights,
to Iceland, Greenland, Vietnam, or the to darkest Peru?

I want to go there and to Ireland's green,
Norway's ice, and the darkest places in my own fears
with or without bumping my head or breaking my foot in Utah.

Let's learn the familiar language of medicine, military, madness,
or become unhinged by Russian toasts to an overthrow of idiocy.
Forget what you know about English or Yiddish.
Dream with me in yogic breathing and softly mumble in Sanskrit.

Take the train to tomorrow with a ticket that you purchase yourself.
Be sure to check your pockets for exact change

and give it all away at the last stop to the wandering Jew
who holds the sign with your name printed lovingly in bold, bloody letters.

Anywhere But Here

This morning, snow turned to slush and slush to ice.
We live in Vermont after all.

From the phone ringing at 5:30 a.m. jolting me awake
only to announce a delay,
to the scooping of walks and nearly breaking my back,
to the beauty of trees heavy enough to turn out the lights. . .
I love this place of cold and winter.

Flatlanders and other people
drive north on the weekends
for what we have every day.

It makes me wonder why we would ever want
to be anywhere but here.

And tomorrow, more of the same.

Watch White Falling

When the snow finally arrives,
please remember to lock up and turn out the lights
so that we can watch the white falling.

It will be out of control for a while
and full of mystery, but totally worth watching
every perfect flake.

When the sun comes up,
let it shine and glitter.
Miracles are supposed to be beautiful
and full of the lightest smell of hope.

A Love Note to My Garden

In January I am always homesick for my garden.

Who, in their right mind, wouldn't long for the blue
of forget-me-nots, the smell of freshly cut grass, and the yellow
of sunflowers?

The purveyors of seeds
torture me with color
and $3 packets of organic seeds
that will yield no immediate satisfaction
until maybe June.

I miss the smell of dirt
and the way you lodge yourself under my nails.

What I would give to scrub you from under your hiding places,
rather than remove an extraordinarily dry pine tree from my living room
and leave it stranded for birds on the snowy deck.

So tired of the darkness.

So envious of places where ice and snow
are absent and red blooms brightly.

May I cultivate dreams
worthy of you
and basil,
green beans,
and the enthusiasm
of volunteer cherry tomatoes.

Weakness

Sometimes the busy days, churning like an accident in slow motion,
are more than anyone can manage and I freeze into a frame,
cold and without feeling anything but shocked
and out of control.

Numbness sets in and I become the robot of myself,
smiling an artificial smile that mimics reality,
and I walk through the days
without letting in a single breath.

I walk out the door
angry, crying for time,
and know it will all be waiting for me when I return
like a predator waiting for the weak member of the herd
at the edge of a field at dusk.

Giving Up Coffee

In the gloom of a cold,
I gave up coffee.

Not like the first time
when I was shamed into drinking tea
and forced to fall in love
with English breakfast,
chai and ginger,
peppermint and Earl Gray,

but because my own body rejected the bitterness
and wanted to be soothed by that old trauma
and to sit quietly with the softness
like an old comfortable sweater.

I am home here in the steaming
and steeping in deep thoughts
of survival and learning to love myself.

Here

Curl close to the body of someone you love
and know that your skin is alive
and transmitting love from every cell.

Like a newborn placed on her mother's chest,
you cry loudly just to let God know
that you made it safely to your destination.

Let yourself notice your breath when you are walking,
be aware of all it take to place one foot after the other
onto the earth.
If you focus carefully, and without fear
you might even get a glimpse of the holy
from all your nakedness.

And when the Divine calls your name,
answer "Here am I."

The Emancipation of Joy

Tonight we celebrated time
like we knew about herding minutes into hours
and the grave is still the end of an endurance race.

We teeter each morning as we rise
hopeful for renewal
until you remember the moon that was pregnant with light,
subtracted from all the stars and the clouds raced
over the Connecticut River in a hurry
just like all the clocks everywhere.

This does not take away from any of the love.
This only reminds us how very precious
the emancipation of joy of a single day.

January Thaw

The temperature
rises and we feel such joy.
January thaw.

Poem for God

Before the day's end
Write one poem to please God.
Know that love is there.

You Will be Stronger

When the dullards take the wheel
and the elemental detour we all hoped to avoid
becomes the superhighway

let us remember like the disciples of Jesus
that this life is not over
no matter what the lummox in the front seat says.

Relish the sun on the face of the evangelist
you must become and do not fear the prosthetic
that used to be your heart.

You will be stronger for the uncontrollable love
you already know is present in the center of your chest.

Stand on the threshold of your new home
and invite the strangers in. They will become new
and all shall be well as can be expected.

Planning the Escape

In the evening when I have settled
ashen-faced and clean after the ablutions
at the end of the day,

I call on the angels,
ask for their guardian presence
as I pull my covers close as downy prayers.

I will bloom in my stary dreaming this night.
Poppies and snow are at peace there,
and I always carefully finger the locket
filled with my lover's voice.

Swindler of all kindness,
weave me into the night.
Make me invisible
to all but the one I adore.

Whisper the plan of our lifetime of escapes.

I will be at the door of the garden
tapping like a ghost who knows all the names
by which you were ever called.

Ordained

Sign me up.
Ordain me a minister
of all the love you can gather
in the pews,
down the streets,
on the buses,
in the market,
over coffee,
under the covers,
at the pub,
around the corner,
over the weekend,
along the river,
with the bread,
crossing the bridge,
serving breakfast with hot tea,
near your heart.

Ordain me
with hope.

Ordain me
with kindness.

Make me the keeper
of the love project
until all the light is gone
from light itself.

The Conversion

Why brandish your hatred
like a politician full of a fury
or like a woman calculating her escape
from a man opulent with fast hands and greedy words
that twist and turn the mind from innocent hope
to a deep and dark well of emptiness,
a cavity with no light to be seen?

Pull the mandolin
from the case
bright with joyful music
and play me a tune.

No need to sequester yourself
from the world
when the white dusting of winter
cleans the path like petals at a wedding.

Let the ugliness go.
Let the unseen hurts disappear.
Let the plodding pace of love win.

This is the conversion
we all can believe in.

Enough Light

The fire is hot.
Tonight the flames burning blue.
There is enough light.

Learning to Play

Mandolin Chord Book
Invites me to sing alone.
Making each string love.

More and More

Rain in January in Vermont
just shouldn't dredge
the beauty from the skies
with dark salt and slippery traps.

The pendulum of a fall
an invincible caveat;
bruises and scabbed shins awaiting
on the stone stairs.

Real danger scampers by
distracting us from melancholy winter weight
or a plastered arm after that stumble
you tell no one about.

The klatch down at the corner laundry will talk
and click the buttons on the umbrellas to release us
from all this liquid.

When the dam lets loose
we will rush into the cold
past our neighbors
like we are running from jail
and the guards are banging much to boldly
on the poor slobs
who will never be ready
for more and more sorrow.

Juggling God's Time

Each heavenly day
I have become a wistful juggler of God's time.

Even when the temperatures plummet
in the beautiful varnish of Vermont snow
I feel drastic thoughts
of green and apple blossoms
so thick with love
I nearly choke on them.

Today I grovel
in my prayers and talking to the heavens
while the sun sets pink and golden
with more truth than reality can handle.

Here is where I toss the balls in the air
all at the same time
and see which ones I can catch
and throw without effort
into the weightlessness of nothing.

Small Poem for a New Year

This trail marks a break
straight and directly driven
to the edge of joy.