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Wandering through the isles with the Martians,
We landed here, this cozy lodge, thick wooden
Beams, field-stones, walls insulated with straw bales
And poems tucked into each wall
Snug against the storms. The long days now,
We stay inside, bundled and warm,
Fire built up and crackling,
Sipping tea, eating those crisp Martian cakes shaped
Like Earth with their faint tang of lemon.
We tell each other stories, the Martians and I, softly,
In quiet voices to match the snow
Drifting past our glazed windows,
Building feather mountains like the ones they remember.

Today, the North Wind’s strong arms
full to overflowing
with signs and portents,
faltered in the heavy rain.
He dropped one at my feet–
one I don’t even recognize.
What are we meant to do
with someone else’s sign?

There is a point
When my mind fills
And begins to quietly break open
Under pressure. Small holes appear
Where words and lists slip
Out and disappear forever
I’ll never know what becomes of
Them, my babies
But this talent of the brain, to
Become a sieve
Leaking away what it can’t hold
Relieves the pressure
So, despite all that’s lost,
there’s space now for light to shine
Into all those cracked open bits.

Be patient, poems,
as I have been with you.
Our time round, but not round like
a game of golf, a mushroom cap,
a beach ball, acorn, moon.
Round in circles, our time together.
We pass each other, over and over,
catch glimpses of the other’s face

    carousel horse,
                            rider,
                                      brass ring,
    face in the crowd,

There. That girl with the red dress and cherry lips,
eating cotton candy—
You choose, Poem.
She can be me or you
this time around.

I stop at a farm stand selling flowers,
tiered displays in pinks, purple, white.
I’ve got petunias, she says, and double petunias
all ruffled. Marigolds, tomatoes, too.
One dollar each. Oh, it’s not to make money, she says.
This is therapy.

I wish I’d stopped moving right there.
I wish I’d asked her to explain, to tell me
her story. Instead I got lost
in the picture she made in my head—
A long line of doctors-to-be,
interns in psychiatry, and those who
study the heart, and those who specialize
in the working of our hands. They arrive
at this farmhouse door in white lab coats,
ready, faces eager and open to learn
all this gray-haired expert can teach them
about How Therapy Works.
She puts down her trowel with a patient sigh
for though she has much work to do, someone,
someone must teach them. She begins simply,
the way you would with very small children.
She leads them to the greenhouse door.
At the sight of them, standing awkwardly
in the muddy patch between potting shed
and vegetable garden, in their thin and shiny city shoes,
unprepared for this practical world, she remembers
where she meant to begin. First, you need boots,
she tells them. She opens the door to the greenhouse,
remembers to speak.
This is a seed, she says.

“Better no personification than bad or foolish personification.”
Mary Oliver, from A Poetry Handbook

The message in my head
from that wise poet
delivered early. I will take it
to my heart with its serious
wild face, my heart so quick
to close its eyes and tuck
its tail round itself into
a snug and dozing circle.
Hibernating now, it’s
slow to rouse, but dreaming
in cold sleep, dreaming
of new roads crossed by so many
other hearts, their wild creature eyes
glinting reflected light, wandering adventures
beneath a huge night sky
swirled with starlight and gold,
the quick and the possible.

I’d forgotten how it is here–
In this Gatsby world of excess,
all champagne and fur coats,
drenched in Opulent smiles
to match these enormous estates.
Perfection, except
no matter how white,
smiles never reach those eyes.
Joe is still there, in his grounds-
keeper’s shed, the best place
to hide. He is much the same,
with his paycheck and normal
warm eyes. His smile remains
small but true
as he tips his hat
and leaves each night
to return to the real world.