What We Carry
-for Ruth

Open any woman’s abundant pocketbook
and you will see
what she carries
to make it through
her days.

The shopping list.
The list “to do” jotted
on the back of an old envelope,
A comb
and a few coins
for the ferryman, pens, cough drops,
lip stick, ticket stubs,
earrings, apple slices and a few almonds.

Tissues and tablets for pain,
a wallet for photos of so many children
and a license to drive—
keys to everything.

But you carried us all
in your womb,
in your heart,
in your arms.

You carried us
in your dreams,
in your prayers,
in your hands.

You carried us in the river
of your body’s blood
to lighten our load,
to help us to see

to the ends of the earth
where memory
of the great ocean
of laughter
and peaceful words
lives in each wave
that touches our feet
on that path
across the sandy shore.

Harvesting the Bodies

It was the November day
for harvesting the bodies
of the many flowering souls
who lifted arms
and smiling faces to God
all summer long.

I waited for the blue bachelor's buttons
and the brown husks of sunflowers,
cosmos pink,
and abundant purple moon flowers
as they gasped their last breath of the season--
as they fell to the earth to be gathered
and put to rest.

Such daisies danced near the black eyed Susans.
False indigo and bee balm,
mint and foxglove tumbled
after the blade and my small hands
said goodbye for the winter.

The sharp spade cut the skin of dirt and grasses open
just long enough to tuck the hearts of daffodils,
a few tulips, crocus, and snowdrops
into the cold chest of darkness
to wait for silence to unfold
one petal at a time.

Contemplating an Afternoon Nap, November

The grasses are honey
and swaying liquid light
where the swamp chirped and croaked
last summer, fire flies twinkling
and flirting with the night.

The bones of these slender bodies
chatter in the breezes now,
barely able to speak
except to balance between the whisper
of November shivering
and the howl
when the darkest blizzard
is yet to come.

I huddle with my strong tea
while the ocean of honest autumn
laps at the shore of my consciousness
and begs me to close my eyes for a few moments.

It is enough to rest
while the afternoon
gulps and rushes off,
slamming the door
before another day escapes.

Time Change

The darkness comes early again
and the stars are neon signs
along the galactic highway

engine brakes sputter
and shake my frame,

like stopping at the bottom
of this hill

really matters.

The words of the priest this morning
reminded me that I am worthy
when I am at my worst--

that my hunger, poverty, and tears
are enough to change nothing
into something almost
as easily
as turning
back

time.

November Morning

The morning is copper
according to this oak
and the sun that casts her line
into the waters of another autumn mist.

I am still on this shore
waiting for something to happen,
like happiness or mindful laughter.

Who wouldn't be breathless
with the anticipation
of another moment
like this frosty
polished joy?

Making Sabbath While the Game is On

On this ordinary Sunday
I escape into the kitchen
while the game is on
to put together chicken pot pie.

My sons, these men in the making,
will be hungry in a few hours

the way they always are
after a weekend of sleeping
and silence the other days of the week
won't allow.

My compassionate companion, the radio
plays while I cut potatoes, carrots,
celery, leeks, broccoli,
and add corn and peas--
exactly bite-sized morsels.

It is easy to find comfort
in all that has come from the garden.

I will tuck each offering
under a buttery crust
and allow abundant steam
and cream,
warm and true
as hands on aproned hips--

Mama calling the beloved
to the glowing supper table.

We will bow our heads,
thankful for the touch
of grace and the ringing of cups,
clinking a joyful toast
to this sabbath meal.

On the Last Day of Summer at a Beach in Maine

The wind reminds me
that this is the end,

cool and bright
yet warm, almost spring
in the texture of the escaping heat.

I walk
like I have
so many times,
shuffling
this time in my tall,
green mud boots
and not bare toed,

blazing a trail
toward the quiet that comes
as I pace the sand
along the edges of the water
searching for shells and stones
to hold me--

to keep me from flying away.

I am the last pink and wild rose.
I am the cluster of birds ready to head south.
I am a visitor who longs to stay
where the sea embraces the sky.