Before dawn, a crowd filled the yard.
Herds of deer, quiet, feasting on windfalls—-
pears fallen in the side yard and
seven more deer beneath the apple tree
at the edge of the field
half-hidden by the barn.
Slow to startle,
they roused themselves, remembered to run
as sky brightened and doors opened,
lights came on, shovels and motors
began making all those noises.
They ran. Except for one small doe
who lingered, stubborn and in love with
apples in the snow.
Windfall
Lights At Every Window
adorning trees and doorways,
staircases, banisters,
edged along the ceilings,
stretched out and glowing,
as all of us—
Evolved Pagans,
Recalcitrant Christians,
Faithful Followers,
the Uninvolved But Jolly,
and the
Perpetually Uncertain,
go forward, feeling our way for
the electric plug, the match to the candle,
the spark to the night,
mostly blind to each other,
but working at the important work:
Holding back the darkness, together.
The World Thick With Angels
These are the days thick with angels.
Here’s the tiny one from my childhood,
in her pale pink gown, silver wings chipped,
her painted plaster face fading but serene.
Here’s the handmade one on my mantle
dressed in green velvet, wings of soft white feathers,
her banner trimmed in gold, proclaiming hopefully—
Peace Be With You Always.
Here, three enormous plywood angels
adorn my neighbor’s yard, painted white,
bedecked with strings of lights and
caught mid-flight, wings and trumpets raised
announcing joy to the grey skies of my street.
And here, the most important angel,
invisible and vital—the one who steered
while you slid off the snowy country road
and into a field—a lovely field with no precipice,
no pond, no enormous tree in your path.
That one? Oh, that is my favorite angel.
Six Word Saturday: Dec. 21
Angel shapes ribbon through the cornfields.
Read more at Six Word Saturdays.
Meeting His Girlfriend
Mom, he said—there’s someone.
And he brought her to dinner,
which went exactly as you’d guess—
Nervous laughter,
many sidelong glances,
her fiddling with her hair,
her scarf, her phone, her fork,
barely eating.
What I really wanted
was to reach across the table
over the untouched food
kiss her forehead
and tell her to relax—
The judging is over, results are in:
that light in his eyes and his
happy, goofy grin
were all I needed to see.
Armor For The Morning
It began as such an ordinary day—-
She woke herself reaching, as usual,
for the armor, but pulled her hand back
Empty,
her head and heart suddenly filled
with this Advice, this Certainty:
Pain will always find you,
despite the shield. The armor is heavy,
so cumbersome to carry that you
wake already weary at the prospect
of strapping on all that cold silver
before breakfast.
Today, instead, make oatmeal
and fill yourself with warmth
no protection at all, only comfort.
Ships Across The Sea
At the darkest turn of the year,
choose lightness. Choose to believe in
their capable hands, each steering
the ship of their own life—
sometimes, far off across the sea
sometimes, near enough to signal
sometimes, pausing at your side
where you can watch together
the moon, the whales
and schools of tiny, iridescent fish
darting beneath your hulls,
close enough for you and the one on the other ship
to marvel together —
How the neon fish catch the moonlight
and pull it deep into the sea
far below the waves, into the quiet
where we have never been before.
Unread
He asked for help with the old book
falling apart in his hands.
The spine was gone.
Inside, leaves of pages stitched together.
Those neat stitches may hold forever,
but the pages are disintegrating
the words unraveling themselves from
this book, titled What A Woman Wants,
Unread
across the long decades.
Grace For The Commute
I listen to the NPR series
about commuting
on my morning commute
to savor the symmetry.
Today a mother spoke about
her three-hour commute
on a subway, with a toddler,
and the word she used
to describe this time was grateful.
I listened,
as I drove and the sun rose
over the hills and little lakes
of my morning commute,
red sky reflecting me,
ashamed of the petty griping
in my head, of my need to
be prodded, like a toddler,
reminded to say thank you,
to be grateful for this
overflowing world of wonder.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 