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
.
.
.
and are they
one and
the same?
the questions roar
and the answers
take flight
and the trees just
stand there
growing
.
.
.
in the mirror of everything
sky raining down around you
in a pattern of potential
with the fortitude of grace
dripping cold from
squared-off shoulders
as if sunshine
could be ordered and
magnificence
presumed
.
.
.
the dog begs for food and i
warm my hands on a first cup of tea
it’s quiet here, in that pause
just between night and day
and the tulips grow
into all things unspoken
with pursed lips and
petty promises
i’m forever
falling for
because
dawn and now
are not the same thing
but when petals whisper
of hope and holler
who would i be
not
to listen?
.
.
.
or if velvet could fly
and the way i watched that hawk
yesterday
brushing a new painting
of sky
as i tried to write a poem
that was not about death
and smiled at simple
impossibility
.
.
.
the ladies gathered every evening
tap-tapping with canes and shuffling mules
to talk about the storm that was always coming
and the girl that walked to Seattle
pain always sitting on somebody’s lap
and death on a bench in the corner
pretending to be ignored
no one rose up to kiss away the chip
on a bony-cold squared-off shoulder
no one was afraid and
no one was falling
for the pout on the face of resistance
by this time they were all old friends
acceptance was the belt
holding the bathrobe closed
and besides, thelma told
the best stories
.
.
.
