I am totally in love with you

sweet words for a weary ear,
a heart that has pushed reluctantly
into new countryside, striated granite
that requires unaccustomed scrambling,
your foot will hold firm even as you
fear you will tumble into an abyss.
i am holding your hand, too, and have
a rope around my waist that I have
tendered for 12 years and is securely
attached to a safe place.
trust me, my love, that you will not
go alone on scree fields that slide
down steep terrain carrying you alone,
away from the one who loves you
the most you have ever been loved.

Letters with Stamps

Packages with French books inside,
Letters with stamps on them, of birds and Presidents.
How rare that sunlight strikes a letter when
the mailbox is opened, amongst the circulars
and magazines, mail order prescription drugs
and an occasional paper bill.
I still like my credit card bills mailed to me,
no matter that they always try to convince me
to be environmentally conscious.
I am, except for the occasional drive to the
airport instead of taking the bus,
or throwing away a yogurt container
because I am too lazy to wash it.
French books with so many words inside,
words that I do not know, that will require
dictionaries and more time, how will I
find time to write a letter to someone
I love.

The slow slog of creativity

every day, we sit down, us perseverent types
and do our thing, play a flute, write a poem,
try to do a Pilates sit-up and trust that one day..
it will happen after weeks of  no apparent progress.
it's the everyday that a tiny corner of the mind or
body yields a miniscule amount, opening a little
space for a new idea that wanders in so quietly.
it seemed so obvious, there was no lightning like that
outside my window that just appeared, followed
by thunder, how many seconds away.
the clouds outside my window are ominous
and the storm is yet miles away, will the rain
come down in torrents as my mind wanders
from micrometeoroids to honeycomb panels,
from poems to the psychology of performance,
from basement clean ups to the lovely quiet
of an evening that darkens, the bed beckoning
lightly now, but will soon embrace me in
spite of myself, a full night for the mind
to wander in strange places and come up
with new creative urges.

We cannot know

We cannot know what we cannot see
except through some inner eye that sees through waterfalls,
each droplet an individual prism of imagination
and color to wash over  Apollo's torso.
One day we see in black and white, like the
fancy gallery postcards we send to our friends
to look sophisticated.
we know we are not, and they do, too, but
we pretend to see the profound through waterfalls
that obstruct our vision, the kaleidoscope of colors
will beautifully block the view.

Photo by Bahman Farzad from Flickr

Remember When

Darling, remember when we gathered flowers in Spring
across the creek to the sound of rushing water.
I carried a Ball jar filled with water and an extra pair of scissors,
in case.
Purple loosestrife bloomed in abundance, as did the graceful
dandelion; beautiful blossoms we might otherwise call weeds
in another venue.
You ran ahead and called out "finds" and we stuffed
the jar to maximum capacity.
Remember, Darling, how every year you could reach
a little higher to snip an errant lilac sprig,
our collection broaded to include more color and scents.
Tonight I walked on the path overlooking our wild garden
and remembered the uneven braids, mismatched socks,
and indomitable enthusiasm. my heart ached for the
sweet tenderness of those moments.
Darling Daughter, let us not forget those days
of innocence and wonder in Spring.

Why Wait

seventy people milled around some cold potluck dishes,
a few cold beers tucked into shirt pockets to talk about
how much he had meant to them,  how talented he was,
how much they missed him, how truly unique he was,
but did we ever tell him when he was standing here amongst
us, living and breathing garlic breath and spaghetti sauce?
probably not, because we were busy discussing politics
or jet noise over Indian Peaks, wood splinters and curing
time of blue polymer, but not the real stuff like how
incredibly grateful we are that he is in our lives, how lucky
we are that he is standing here dropping some bread crumbs
onto our carpet that we just vacuumed for company.
why wait to read the obituary about the multiple talents,
the many friends, the generosity of this woman, this man,
and hope they got the message up there somewhere, here
on earth, we are not necessarily wise enough to know how
much we are loved, and maybe not generous enough to
share how much we love someone else, who in another day
or week or month or year may not be here to actually
hear it with their own warm to the touch ears, the electrical
signals traveling lickety-split to the brain, the heart warms
and this deep sense of happiness from being told how
special they are today, garlic breath and all.

Garmin Gone Wrong

it should have been a straight shot back the way I came,
befuddled by darkness and lack of direction, I believed the
automated female voice commanding me towards a highway
rushing with traffic, blinking yellow lights and night
construction, bewildered I obeyed.
I can hear K. berating me for not developing a sense
of where I am and I agree with her in these moments
of being lost while a disembodied voice tells me
that I am on my way to "found", just not the way
I would have ever chosen.