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
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.
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
It’s all bound up here …
Every wish and longing, hope and anguish lived
Swallowed in a moment
Quivering, shimmering petals receiving the spring sun as one receives a lover.
This morning a robin paused
on the back lawn
having spotted me through the window
whether to continue it’s morning hunt for worms.
I realized my intrusion
Between us, a moment
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,
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.
Away From Here
In the darkness waiting for sleep
The sound of snoring
A ticking clock.
My heart aches with helplessness
When will sleep come to carry me away from here?
ovulation time, when eggs swim everywhere blinding me with desperate need
a week of wandering through days in a half-drugged state of maddening arousal
men transform into perfectly cooked steaks – especially the seasoned ones who’ve weathered fatherhood
it’s a hungry time. ripe time. vulnerable time.
A good time to stay home but every cell strains to get out, get laid. right now.
soon this will pass, just like midsummer passes, and cool calm will come again
but for this week, the goddess dreams.