30 days of poems – 2020 {11}
.
in numbers
we stand
marking lives
with calendars
60 years
eighty
2 years
fifty-five
just some of the
birthdays
we celebrate this month
in spirit
apart
with love
but no hugs
.
. . . . .
.
.
in numbers
we stand
marking lives
with calendars
60 years
eighty
2 years
fifty-five
just some of the
birthdays
we celebrate this month
in spirit
apart
with love
but no hugs
.
. . . . .
.
the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies
i think about tradition
and the millions of women
who have stood at a sink
or a stove or a counter
smiling and singing
in a warm ray of sunshine
as they filled small houses
with smells of love
i am crying
(all these onions)
and i don’t need
to do all this work
this chopping
this repetitive
standing-up
oh-my-back labor
we could have had
scalloped or mashed
or baked, but
the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies
feeling blessed
and the voices
of those women
(those ghosts)
who came before me
are singing right along
in a harmony
of light
.
.
.
if i could choose a memory
to hold in my pocket
it would be that chuckle
the little grin
those mischievous eyes
that always spoke of spirit
and i know
you are here
today
in this room
i know
because the echo
of your heart
has not faded
i know
i need only
just to stop
and to listen
and i will hear
tiny butterfly wings
of flutter and grace
fragile and tenacious all at once
weaving tales of love
and remembrance
into the very air
i breathe you in, i let you go
i breathe you in, i let you go
you’re always there
always there
floating
on the iridescent color
of laughter
.
.
.
.
.
slide open twist
red slice inhale and
snow like stars on cars
the way you carried me
half moon trundled and
sleep-breath cloud
lifting both of us
from a day like any other
marked by tattoo
kiss on fevered forehead
sweet dreams tiptoe
door gently closing
.
.
.
i just want to say that i see you
pouring love onto
the sidewalk
doing your best
every day
to fill in all the cracks
i see you standing there
alone and afraid
and giving
and giving
and giving
burning bright
not just at both ends
but in a circle you’ve drawn
all around us
keeping the darkness at bay
you’ve outrun the odds
and the lot of us
beaten strife down
with the soles of two feet
always moving
taking you places
you’d rather run through
valleys of burden
and pits
of responsibility
and i want
to carry your heart
to the top of the mountain
feed you sun and
silent breezes
wash your blisters and build you
a sky-high fire
to throw enough light
for you to find
your own reflection
i just want to say that i see you
.
for nana
.
.
.
Prepared to run, poised for flight, yet standing my ground. The sky grows dark with words that flit by with the silence of bats, words used, expelled, offered in place of all I cannot give. The earth rumbles with those I’ve yet to speak.
I want to remember tomorrow before it happens and dream of yesterday’s chance. I want to be the bird that lands last. I want to sing with the abandon of loss.
Instead, I reach my arms high and offer sanctuary, spreading branches like wings and roots like scrabbling claw feet. I am sharp-edged and hollow-toed. I am filled with echoes.
I dreamt of you again last night, fooled myself into seeing you again, but even my dream felt the need to remind me that you are gone. And even in sleep I wondered if this is the way it will always be, and I spent the rest of the night wandering lost from room to room in a house built from memories of places I’ve never been.
We were there, together, just for a moment. Before I remembered.
Mostly, I’ve come to understand that the questions will never be answered. Mostly, I’ve come to embrace the lack of knowing. I am content to wander through this field of grass and bird and flailing branch. The wind is a challenge to stay upright, my map has sailed high into clouds of disdain.
.
And we laughed again
at free falling bottles and
broken stars. We laughed.
.
.
.
.
Lately, life has been all about getting stuff done, flitting around like a busy bee in the garden and the house. And while it hasn’t exactly been fun, let’s face it, sometimes stuff needs to get done.
The grandbaby is coming this weekend, it’s already been over a month since I’ve seen her and I am so looking forward to this visit.
And then, summer. Soaking up the sun, reading, relaxing, enjoying life.
Writing again. Paying attention to more than peeling paint and dust bunnies.
I can’t wait.
growing
side by side
putting down roots
sending out shoots
weathering storms and
basking in sunlight
floods and drought
potbound and replanted
moonlight trysts
and daytime dances
messes and loss
triumph and seasons
fed by love and
seven thousand sunsets
here we are,
still blooming
.
Happy Anniversary, Mr. M.
.
.
.
Last night, despite single-digit temperatures, I went out to dinner with my mom, sister and niece. My body balked at the notion of going anywhere in this cold, but I forced my inner hermit into silence and got dressed to go all the same. And we had a great time, just catching up and laughing and being silly.
Silly is good.
I find myself, especially at this time of year, living by rote, filling my days with habits and patterns and same-old same-old, and it’s nice to veer off the beaten path and walk through a field, cut through an alley, wander aimlessly. I don’t do that often enough.
Lately, I’ve barely had time to write in the mornings, and I am missing that particular habit, one that’s surely worth keeping. My days have felt slightly off, rushed, harried, and it’s taken me this long to figure out why. I’m out of my groove.
But life is funny like that, it doesn’t really allow you to stay in any one rut for very long, things are always changing, shifting, moving. Even when you try to hold your place, you can feel the earth tilting beneath you, forcing you to change your stance just to remain upright.
But change is also good; in some ways, it’s what keeps us going.
I cut all my hair off. (Or rather, I had a professional do it). I’m leaving the house more often, to spend time with the people I love. I’m reading books like they are food. Or air. Or both. I’m organizing.
I look in the mirror and hardly recognize myself.
Except this morning I got up and smiled at the outrageous case of bedhead I’d acquired during the night, looking as if I’d spent the night spinning on my head like a top. (Truly, it’s my superpower).
Ah yes, there I am.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
My inner hermit takes great comfort in that.