Poems

The Little Gym

Here are the mothers fathers grandparents guardians

Waiting.  Quetly, watchful.

Inside, our children play together

Just beyond the glass window that separates us.

Some of us try to capture moments precious in their fleeting-ness with cameras

Instructors, young almost-still-children themselves

entertain, demonstrate.

They are energetic, playful, skillful

Our children laugh, jump, tumble run

While we watch, sitting quietly with our thoughts behind the glass

watching over them

thnking perhaps of laundry, errands, other worries

separated by our thoughts

But here, togther this moment,  for our children.

Love

Doesn’t thrive in intimate spaces

it blossoms where there is distance.

Use and Care:

Attended to regularly, not overwatered, it grows.   It likes sun – best not to crowd it or stand between it and it’s light source.

Compost is helpful.

Ephemeral … or Spring Love

The crocus reaching for the sun were a reminder today that 39 years have passed
without having produced a list of events
a pile of accomplishments of note
a created cannon of work
as one might expect they should – or would have.
Delivered, as we are to a single moment
bare in it’s being
resplendent in it’s fullness
motionless, soundless.
It’s all bound up here …
Every wish and longing, hope and anguish lived
Swallowed in a moment

Of seeing

Quivering, shimmering petals receiving the spring sun as one receives a lover.

Fat Robin

This morning a robin paused
on the back lawn
having spotted me through the window
unsure, perhaps
whether to continue it’s morning hunt for worms.

Embarrassed
I realized my intrusion

Between us, a moment
in which
he stands still, his orange chest puffed forward, portly in stance
gaze resting on me.

Nothing to do but to honor his request for privacy
a faint flush in my cheeks
as if I’d caught him having his morning toilet.

Perhaps I had.

Dust in the Light

A single stream of sunlight comes in through dirty glass

A river of light distorted,  illuminating dust

immortalized, mummified, caught like ghosts.

Paths in the light echo what the room has witnessed and recorded:

Desires, Comforts offered, dreams and wishes forgotten by the one who forged them,

but not by the room.

They are kept there, in it’s quiet embrace.

As a mourning mother holds the memory of a child taken –

sleeplessly and alone.

Her mind is such a place,

in which

a father’s garden grows

It’s perfect rows of carrots still lovingly tended

The patterns for children’s clothes lay, pinned to their fabric, arranged on the floor

A girl gazes into the mirror of a dressing table, dreaming of a dance

and an old man’s pipe rests, still warm, by his abandoned rocking chair.

Dust in the light

Until the sun withdraws, leaving the lover silent for another day’s dreaming.

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