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.