Spend Time in a Field

Leave the gate open

as the crescent moon 

hangs low in the west.

Walk slowly on the path

past the pond

to the place you planted

sunflowers, cosmos, and zinnias

in May.

Though the pumpkins and butternut

have all been eaten by the ravenous whitetails,

the flowers have unfolded and the palette of purples,

pinks, yellow, and red glow radiant

as the light fades into fall.

I walked with my son into this field tonight

gathering armfuls of the happy faces of blossoms

into bouquets that will shine something like joy

into each of the days of the coming week.

Careful not to wake the occasional bee

curled into the petals we have picked, 

we speak in reverent voices,

considering the trials;

the most common chaos

where God has forgotten the dust

she left in the corners

of anger, disappointment,

and the doubt of grief.

We stand together, silent

listening to the way night 

opens the door

with barely an effort

or flicker of force.

Morning Pages

Two broad-winged hawks

I spotted and tried to identify

in the green bird book,

perched in the dead branches

of the maple

nearly out of sight,

just at the edge of the field,

absorbing the heat of the morning,

just at the edge of this summer.

The grey squirrel's

staccato movements below

were just what the menu required.

Heads turned deliberately,

knowingly not giving away 

their superior location.

It is slightly cool in the chair 

next to the desk

in the dim light.

The season has turned me

to the larger mug for my tea

and the warmer red robe

the children bought 

as an offering for my birthday

nearly twenty years ago.

From this perch

I can see the overgrown weeds

and cherry tomatoes dropping

in the diminishing garden;

the black-eyed Susans

drying on the stems

and fat marigolds

in all their puffed-up glory.

The clatter from the kitchen

and shuffle of old slippers

will not distract me

from these morning pages

while I watch twenty-five turkeys

gather, parade, and cluck 

content and oblivious 

to my admiration.

Three Drowned Mice

 

In September

the rodents move in

from the grasses and sunshine

to the spaces between the walls

and floorboards,

carrying seeds and looking 

for crumbs from the toaster

and the occasional ripening pear 

or red tomato on the kitchen counter;

a prune under the edge of the oven.

Last night I trapped them,

drowning three

in a bucket in the basement.

They were not blind.

They used their quivering noses

to find the pasty peanut butter

on the can over the barrel

and fell

to their watery 

deaths,

never to chase me in the night

with their scratchy scurry again.

Not one to ever nibble

through the crusts of the sourdough,

poop in the cupboards near the cups 

and unsuspecting saucers,

or shove seeds into the toes of my sneakers.

Human 3, mice zero.

Better Sleep Is On The Way

The sales girl tells me

she is the daughter of a dairy farmer

who died when she was four,

her mother never hugged her--

never.

"What's the matter with you?" she said

"Your mother hug you too much,

or not enough?"

How I miss my mother,

the way she smiled

when we greeted in the morning

with a song or like old friends 

hugging tightly.

The memory of her strong

and careful little fingers on the lids

of my child eyes

as she gentled me to sleep.

"Better Sleep Is On The Way"

is the ordinary tagline of the mattress store 

in tax-free Keene, New Hampshire.

Bea hands me a medium pillow,

and a paper doiley to keep 

my braids from the fibers of the fabric

between petite me and each trial of comfort.

Too firm, too fancy, too expensive,

too bouncy, too plastic, too cold,

until we narrow it to two.

The mattress back home,

nearly twenty years my companion,

is older than any marriage or time 

with a trusted lover.

The dip under my left hip

and the collapsing edges

have urged me to endure the banter

of the Providence accent

that has likely never 

stepped foot on any farm.

"I'll take this one." I whisper in apology.

She has mercy on me.

Free delivery

and they will take away the body

filled with mites and skin

and all the stains of too many nights.

Guaranteed for ten years.

She hugs me,

calls me Honey,

offers me a butterscotch candy

on my way out.

They will deliver

next Sunday.

I will be ready 

for the call.

Red Riding Hood

Last night I woke,
voice stuck in my throat,
choking and tears unstoppable.

A shadow of a girl was climbing
into the bed with me
to spit into my eyes
and my open mouth.
Unendurable fear
of her angry saliva
damaging my innocence,
unstoppable.

My arms paralyzed,
body trapped,
I groaned awake 
apologizing to the sleeping household
for my disruption of the peace.

"I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry."

My heart awake,
the mind wandered to the woods
and the wolf
where good little girls 
in red hoods
doing good things
get off the path,
only for a moment,
and danger consumes them.

Snow (finally)

 Snow (finally)

It is quiet and fresh

like it is only when it snows 

fat, fluffy snowflakes finally arriving 

in January

after Epiphany.

We all wonder 

knowing this is way too late

to wassail

and sing love songs

toasting the trees,

but after the collection of floods

and the heat of summer

we take this miracle 

and hum to ourselves

like perfect amnesia,

welcoming the silence

like monks

on a Christmas morning.

Suddenly, my skittish cat yowls

outside my bedroom door

shivering from the exile of the night.

Her rooster ritual

shakes my limbic core

as she intends.

I throw off the comforter,

pausing my pen,

to give her acknowledgment

and access to my cell.

Satisfied with the return to routine

the feline purrs, then leaps,

onto the window sill to observe,

marveling at this swirling meditation,

answered prayer for substantial winter,

somehow, 

a common revelation

in this unusual time.

In Search of the Moon

 In Search of the Moon (for my grandson, Otto Zane Carlson, born 3/18/2023) 

 

We waited patiently, 

made silent prayers and outrageous offerings 

into the mouths of this slice of chaos. 

Even now, we urgently want you to breathe in deeply, unafraid 

laugh loudly, play endlessly in daisy-filled fields, 

explore murky ponds and wonder between the lines of stories-- 

the way that boys do. 
 

Your parents certainly will teach you what it is to be loved by the way  

they look each other in the eye and at you. 

Your uncles will hold you in their arms, murmur manly advice 

about pocketknives, good farm food, Vermont style, music, 

and, of course, will embrace you with all their hearts 

whenever they greet you 

for the rest of their generous lives. 

They won’t be able to help themselves. 

 

I suspect it will be your sister,  

the girl you met today only hours after your birth, 

who will pledge to carry your collective dreams 

to the alter of the night sky  

in search of the mysteries of the moon. 

This common orb of delight and fiction as it waxes and wanes 

reflecting the power of the sun, 

will bind you to each other with silvery stitches 

no matter where you are. 

 
Heaven knows the promises you made to find your way to us 

this time in a body immersed in infinite ancient memories 

like a package hidden in the seam of a beggar’s tattered coat.