suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday
.
.
.
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
.
.
.
the world we sit in
and the world we live in
have become
two different things
by now
fifteen minutes
is the measure
of antipathy
and data
the construct
of worth
observation
has replaced
interaction
i see you
you see me
we do not touch
i know one thing
about you
you know
three things
about me
it all adds up
we can’t
catch up
.
.
.
a hatchmark of trees
filters lavender sky
the blue heron swings right
just overhead
flying over a house
marking time and
strong weather
the storms have filled
the swamp again
the grass goes green
a single daffodil
blooms from a nest
of brown leaves
nothing and everything
beginning
.
.
.
busy
and the days grab me away
from the paying attention
to that color, that lilt,
that perfect light
one breath
one moment
take it in
notice
this is what matters
this one fleeting second
of pure, silent beauty
remember
.
.
.
and i am still right here
these are the words
that ring through my head
on a hamster-wheel day
when running in place
feels just as exhausting
as covering distance
and all i really
want to do
is fly
.
.
.
in the garden there is a tree that leans
oh so far to the right
(from where i sit)
and i smile at the audacity
of this refusal to break
this will to survive
this pugnacious affront
to convention
i write poems about age
(or simply think them)
understanding that crooked
is a different kind of tenacity
and the temerity of youth
is just blossom
mostly i remember
the silence
of a morning
meant for forgiveness
and the stars on that night
we walked to saturn
the birds eat berries
left long on winter branches
gone sweet with the yearning
to be free
.
.
.
spring comes and the birds start singing
and that’s not poetry
it’s truth in a dress
made from hope and hybrid dancing
but we wear it on days
when the swamp
spills over
and
every tiny miracle
understands the word survival
and thrive becomes the promise
of tomorrow
less season
than rebirth
perhaps even
a holy transformation
or simply life
refusing
to go gently
but the birds learned all this
long before Plato
and that
in a word
is
poetry
spring comes and the birds start singing
.
.
.
of your outrage and your joy
your frustration and your ploy
your glad-to-be-alive
or about-to-take-a-dive
the mystery of light
and the hollow of each night
your complaints and your praise
of survival and spent days
the youth that was lost
and the parody of cost
just sing
.
.
.
clinging hard to the dance of dawn, delayed
and you can lie
belly up to the cold grey sky
letting go of all fear
til the hawk comes tapping
on one shoulder
nothing between us,
no shield,
no field,
nothing filling the corners
with debris
just these bold
reflection curves
and mist-mirrored
smiles
holding court
in a forest
of fancy
.
.
.
