Monthly Archives: June 2014

Summer keeps writing
passionate notes
wherever you turn what else
could be meant by
pink geranium petals
floating to land on your leg
while you read on the front porch?
Even now, summer can’t stop—
She signals as you write—
splash of goldfish in the pond,
note stuck to the damp sparkle
of lemonade pitcher
Read it quick
before the green ink
dampens and evaporates.

Schooled to be docile
all the assembled information
allowed itself to be tied up into
neat little packets bound with
twine, double-knotted.
In late June, all that data—
reports and scores, accumulated
evidence of the year
untied itself
gathered, ungathered
scattered across the tile floors
or pressed against the windows
till it found one Open
and then the flow of information
flew.

When you Know
without any recipe
exactly what you need
cook golden broth
chopped greens
bright srirachi
limes
A little gift
from you to you
in this now world
of necessary rain
work that is all tallies
grades, target scores,
children pinned to paper.
Intuition soup
breathes wisdom
reminds you to laugh
talk and stretch, create and sleep
and stir this perfect intuition soup
for dinner.

When the fog lifts
you see again
how the trees glisten
as if filled with light
Light, thick and sweet,
pours itself all over this world
World grows clearer
and more delicious
with every passing
moment
Once you can see,
you can hear it
This world that has been
calling your name
over and over
Now,
beckons again.

They say you should be
Open to New Ideas,
he said (begrudgingly).
And so I am
open to the
idea of being Open
to New Ideas while not
exactly, not precisely,
not definitively,
actually, open
just yet.
However,
thus far, I can say
definitely,
absolutely,
unequivocally,
as far as
the idea
of being
open,
I am.

And not just them—
Teachers and Jugglers
will tell you the same.
There must be a balance
between all things
Apple, orange, thin air
the chair and the podium
the pen and the hand
talking, not talking
listening and being heard
the desk and the forest
clamor of midday, quiet of night
vast brown ocean, deep blue sea.

beer cans, bottle caps, paper cups
our discarded attempts at
drinking in the whole world
Here and there, a nail from
where we tried to fasten
everything together
into a shape that would hold.
And almost always among
all these and the dandelion blooms
a pencil stub
dropped there for you
to pick up and write

In today’s mail
keys to your cottage,
your letter and the keytag
in familiar handwriting.
The tag says Lake
as if one small key could
open that hugeness
and I thank you because
it will come in handy
for opening the cottage door
though
all the important locks are sprung,
their doors opened wide
Doors to summer
to happy, suntanned kids
to naps in hammocks
to kayaks and bonfires
to laughing friends, arms wide,
who say, Here, this is all for you.
For these, there is no key.

My boy smiles
A rueful smile
At you, the dog he loves.
I recognize that smile
Which says
He knows all your faults
And quirks. The way
You are afraid of
Everything
Scared of other dogs
Ducks
Little kids
Men with facial hair
Water
Cats, of course
Bald men
Guitars
Teenage boys
Cars
Most women
And plastic bags.
Your ideal would not
Be this guitar-player
With a beard but
A twelve-year-old girl,
Who recycles, quiet
And not at all musical.
Instead, my boy.
So you nuzzle him,
The one you get,
With your furry face
And smile your own
Rueful smile.

One day you look up
discover this whole world
turned green in the rain.
Simple, says the world,
Go be thirsty, too.
Tilt your face
to the sky
Take the rain
inside
and like lemon,
apple, pear, plum,
pecan, like all before
you,
Ripen.