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.