Puff Of Smoke Poems

over morning coffee
I conclude—
joy is curled up
in the strawberries—
It hides at the tender spot where
green stem dives into red center
Let us indulge today
in all this offered sweetness

the birds answer when she knocks
Springtime drifts through the opened door
on a cloud of green perfume
trailing petals

When you catch the scent,
look up before it’s over

This note is for you, and for me.
Springtime needs no scribbled reminder
She arrives
full of luscious promise
whether you and I
are here
whether we notice
or not

I picture it as if a person
put down the green thread they carry—
thread of remembering
the long journey of the past
names of places and objects—
(is it cologne? Is it deodorant?
It is that thing you spray
to change how the world smells—)

Once dropped, the thread
tangles itself around impatience
frustration of lost moments
gets trampled in the grass
whole sections break off certain years,
long connections between
people go missing or must be improvised—
a substitute name here, a decade there
until —
Who knows? But for now it is knotted
covered in mud and so hard to picture it
bright green and flowing

long-haired man
balances pizza box
as he unlocks the street door
to rickety stairs.
above, there’s one lit window
with a plant on the sill

I wonder over the nutritional value of a large pizza at six a.m.
The part of me which can never stop mothering wants to call out to this stranger, offer to make him some scrambled eggs maybe.

but then
I look up and see the plant
green, thriving
in a walk-up apartment
and decide he’ll be okay.
Imagine his relief
if he knew of
my confidence in his destiny

early spring
cold-toed crocus
and a shiver of daffodils

I shift from carrying tiny, toy size purses to enormous schlumpy bags that hold every thing                       in case I need four pens or a gift card from the holidays or three pairs of sunglasses or a protein bar, a book or a different book or lipstick.
Then switch back again.
In the same spirit, I move from long rambling poems to compact forms, one image, few words.
Here I go again, tumbling

learn to write haiku
from instruction books, pamphlets,
guides, what Not To Do

or

pick up this small book
one poem per page,
perfect

or

go out to the woods,
sidewalk, school
whatever world offers it-
self
up to you

bring a pen

up before dawn on an ordinary weekday
in a worrisome world
Light candles
plug in stringed fairy lights
turn on lamps. Notice the neighbor’s porch lights
reflected in your windows
Step outdoors
Walk carefully but
Walk
See how still lit street lamps and the moon
shine on patches of leftover snow

Before you step into
your small local life
in the huge world that every day feels
more dangerous
breathe
Breathe even when it’s hard.
Look to light
Candle, moon, street lamp

You are tasked —we are tasked
with going into the world every day.
We choose to
be loud and forceful or
quiet and watchful
or be another in these links of light—
The way once in a dark church someone
pressed a lit candle to another wick and another
till the whole room glowed
and even though we are hard pressed

I can reach my lit candle out to you
and you can reach to whoever life has placed next to you today
and I make no claims that this will save our world
But
here,
but now
It is a way to build this day into a day of light

last night
you filled the window frame
with light.
this morning, in the dark
you’ve climbed the neighbor’s garage
to rest on the roof
Another high, lonesome moon

when you grow tired of darkness
notice the light, how it lingers—
six o’clock at night
wheeling the trash can to the curb
look up
Sky to the west
still bright with orange clouds
light lasting
longer every day

But this one? Higher.
it stretches its unsteady self
up to the roof peak where
the spotlight has gone out
that used to show us
what the dogs scent and startle at—
snow, deer, wind, possible bear, possible bunny.

This ladder?
Aluminum and therefore, wobbly
Wobblier than the last one
Another surprise in this surprising love
I could never have predicted
one of the unexpected lessons
is an increased Awareness
of the structural integrity of ladder materials.
This time, no joke, is scary. You offer to climb.
I look at you. At the ladder. I climb.
This time, you don’t say anything to make me laugh
Instead, each backward step down
I feel your big hand on my calf
guiding my steps safely
back to earth, and to you