Sunflowers at Sunset Lake Road

So many summers now,

seven I think,

I have planted

the hope of sunflowers

at Sunset Lake Road

These seeds are for my neighbors

who walk their dogs

or stroll to the Diner for ice cream.

They are for the strange girl

in the black dress.

She passes by unsmiling.

They are for distant friends

and my dead father

who loved the nature of sunflowers

to boldly bloom 

while everything changes.

Gone

for Jonah as he leaves for California (August 2018)

How do we navigate this departure
into the frontier of constant time
and traversing the Rockies
in a truck
with a box
you made
for yourself
when I thought my job
of calling you
from some celestial orbit
was the only sacrifice
that was required of me?

Sleepless nights and constant crying
while you navigated your way
out of some other deep sorrow
of another life

abandoned

and it was my job
to hold you.

"Don't let me go!" you screamed

day and night.  

Don't

let 

me 

go.

I stood my ground

because I called you

from all that darkness

into the light.

I

called

you.

Until now.

The truth is, you've been leaving for a while now.

The first day of kindergarten,

with your simple, shocking wave.

Boston, Florida,

skateboards, 

snowboards,

Miles and miles of music.

Alabama, NYC, road trips,

running away,

coming home

California

L

A

the alphabet of strangers

and angels, 

the city of the festival

of roses.

And now

the magnetism of mystery,

umbilical long gone.

I am lost in all the losses.

What can I say about love

when you are already

gone?

Looking Back

The pulse of crickets
has me counting tonight.
My fingertips are raw with grief
knowing that the fading light
eventually leads us to leaving
all this glory behind.

The autumn vagabond has already shown up
in a few limbs of random maples,
stressed by too many storms
that cannot be counted
by the average observer.
Red, yellow, and faded orange
migrate into the leaves,
silently packing up
the remains of wavering heat
in a borrowed valise.

The summer people
will soon close up their shutters
and return to the safety of the city
before sunset extends her arms
and collapses exhausted under the blinking stars.
Darkness does not live in NYC, Boston,
or LA; these cities of twenty-four hour flashing neon.
Tourists arriving to Vermont in the longest days
of fireflies and hay making,
have no idea what they abandon after the switches click off.
Nobody dares look back as they drive away,
caught guilty of nothing,
without a tearful glance
at the natives.

Nearly Hovering

It is easy to imagine
on the first sunny day in a week
that the blur and whoosh of feathers
are messages from the places Love is made.

Hover near the bee balm,
breathless and steady,
and the thwirring sound of souls
in the dull green body armor of a hummingbird
will focus the mind as quick as her wings
will take her.

Gold finches,
gracefully chase each other in the birch
and hop from Black Eyed Susan,
delicately eating those impossible seeds
and lighting in the thick grasses not yet harvested
by our haying farmer.

Listen for the pattern
of cardinal calling
like a punctual monk chanting Psalms.
Even before the sun rises
he is waking all the aviators.

You don't need a passport,
or even luggage,
to take this trip
where languages
need no translators
to make sense
of all this joy
lifted to the sky
in nearly weightless prayers.

Meditation Before Sunrise

Stumble from the sheets
to check the glow of time,
a collision with the layers
of mystery as it passes.

I sit in the euphoria
of the silence of the house.
No music. No hum of a fan.
No voice spoken in harsh whisper.

Only the treasure of the breath
that digs past consciousness
into the humus of thoughts,
discovery after discovery
of all that was forgotten,

uncovered by the archaeology
of Memory wiping her hand
over the top of the box,
sneezing and coughing
as dust rises.

Count the beads,
cool and blue with the night,
each round globe an offering of prayer
as the heart opens to the possibility
of love.