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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

my mother shopped
desperate-eyed for something to ease
the fallout from—
from what? She never said.
My guesses include
alcohol
choices she regretted
and comparing herself
unfavorably.

She seldom returned things she bought
Even when they turned out to be wrong
Old things, stained or ripped or outgrown?
She kept those too.

The back stairwell from kitchen to second floor
was piled with remnants of shopping trips
stuffed into dark green trash bags
Inside were clothes nobody wore—things never left our house.
She kept it all—shopping misadventures and secrets
Oh, those didn’t leave for years and years
That’s what made them secrets.
Through all the seasons of growing up
they mildewed in airless bags
we shaped ourselves around. You could use the stairs
if you stepped carefully but it was a slippery way so we stayed quiet.
She didn’t like us climbing there which made it
Irresistible

All that? Decades ago.
Now, today, I am driving to you through dense fog
Weather wraps around my car
while inside I sing along with the radio
holding the everlonger past and what I build from it
I carry it in how I regard every thing that happens even
how I think of you which
explains why I love sex so much more
than shopping. So you find me
in the middle of the day at the kitchen sink—
I am looking out the window at deer in the upper field
when you kiss the back of my neck
I lean my whole self to press against you
and set down everything I carry until it’s just you and I
dressed in the delicious moment that is
Now

poems appear
Sometimes, what stirs me is an image
or a word grabs my hem
Some days, a longer jumble of syllables, a whole sentence pulses in my head.
I repeat it on my breath
carried
until I can lay that poem tenderly down on paper
shape-shifted from what it was to
some thing different

In between appear and written down,
What are you? Not a poem yet.
You are a whisper, a tickle at the neck, a treasure anticipated.
I hold you,
so I will not lose you
the same way as a child I clutched my
fingers closed over change for candy
or the candy
and after the walk home
I unclasped my fist for the treasure
words for a poem
or sweaty quarters or half-melted sweetness

Just so, you and I yesterday—five degrees outdoors
but blue sky brilliant sun
melted all it touched
five degrees outside
but so sunny we could listen to the once ice once snow
flow into another form
as we did together indoors

I who hate heights
climb
your
garage
ladder
while
you steady it and
hand me lightbulbs
to change
in the cobwebbed rafters

Sudden illumination

you guide my backwards steps
down with hand, with voice
call me
a brave little toaster

which does its work
of distracting me enough
to laugh
and there I am
back on the ground
with you

This morning I jumped
At my own shadow and yours
Our dark followers

You bark only at
The truly terrifying—
Headlights
Skittering leaves on pavement
The long black shadow of
The small black cat
The one who is the rightful heir
Due to inherit the kingdom
Of our street to rule semi-benevolently
As the last cat did before him

Some are born to royalty
Me —I think I was a peasant
And you were a peasant’s dog
Both of us happy with small things
Good scents to sniff in the wet grass
And a dark warm morning when
We don’t need mittens to lose on our walk

One house in the dark, still
light-strung
We pass three joggers
then three once-Christmas-trees waiting
at the curb

But time moves on
All along Main Street
they’ve taken down the wreaths
that hung from each lamp pole
Our whole town, except for that one hold-out house
plain and simple
again

because every thing
on this earth
looks
different
when covered in snow

Winter is built for shelter
designed to fall in the dark months
weeks our bodies remember who they are,
mumbling mammal,
mammal to these hibernation hearts
beneath the blue down comforter.

Scarves and hats of many colors,
thick gloves,
sturdy boots
delight and distract
But soon
night knocks
to remind us

Wind is a favorite word of the weather
but pressed for an answer,
Winter, like us all, yearns—
It peeks through our lit windows
And chooses shelter
as its favorite word

After we read the poem Teleology by Willie Lin last night in my wonderful writing group.

All I understand for certain about this mysterious poem
is that it snows in Nebraska
Imagine all that cold, the wind-driven snow
as it blows across wide fields gone fallow

Here, far from Nebraska, it’s a mild winter so far
Instead of snow, darkness is what falls
early and stays long. Still dark at 6 a.m.
Dark already in the late afternoon
which may, on different days,
become a symbol—
cozy view from indoors
thrilling view outside of
lights at every window
Or it may
on other dark days
be a loneliness, be a sound like bereft

We shape the snow
We shape the darkness
We shape Nebraska,
those of us who never lived there
Tune it with our own turn
towards melancholy
or joy
Remember today in the snow in the dark
That there are people giddy with love
of the dazzle of lights in windows
and someone somewhere is throwing
a loud and happy party out there
in Nebraska