Flower first
before you dress
in green and
practical leaves.
Why wait
when this very day
can be spent
covered in pink blossoms
and fat bees,
every single one of them
drunk and busy,
lopsided with joy
just to be near you
at the height of
your beauty?
Flower first.
Flower now.
Extravagance is Everything.
Advice From My Redbud Tree
Benediction For My Town
Tonight my town
sleep nestled in your hills
blanketed by stars.
Dream of the sweetness
that walks through
your streets —
all I love about
this small town:
Friendly dogs, flowering yards,
neighbors who wave
and call out to each other, sidewalk visits.
For background music, the high school
band practices as they march and
Listen–cheers from the ball field where
tonight is t-ball and small,
small children eating hot dogs
and learning the rules of the game
while crowds cheer them on
and then take them out for ice cream.
Gatsby World
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.
Rule Breaker
Last night the dream was children and books
making it much like the rest of the day.
Except for one little girl
in a white cotton dress, printed with pink roses,
who cried and cried
because she broke the rules.
She sobbed into my damp shoulder
as I knelt beside her trying
to bend myself to her height.
I kept my voice calm,
patting her back, murmuring nonsense
while the fury in me built.
Me, Queen of Following Rules,
wished them to be tangible
so I could do them harm
wished I could push them
down the steep wooden stairs
for making her so sad.
Screwdriver
Found on last night’s walk,
trampled into the loose gravel
between road and field,
this screwdriver
with its battered blue handle
and its hard-earned philosophy
concerning the world’s obsession
with tightness, and battening down
anything that rattles.
Oh, the stories it could tell
if it would
of things it has bound together.
But it’s only interested in tales
of the work it loves best–
in fact, what brought it out traveling
on the road this very night—
Searching for something to loosen.
Cold Snap
turns us brittle.
This is not the crispness
of the first bite
into an autumn apple
warmed all summer
on its tree.
No, this is the sharpness
of long waiting for warmth
cut off just as
we dug out all our sandals
from the backs of closets
painted our toenails pink
to welcome the sun.
These toes only dream of
warm wool socks today
so brittle
they may snap.
Birds, buds, branches
Join us
and shiver
in the absence of
Spring
which opened us all
like flowers
then fled.
Weather Report For the Middle of May
Tennis players sip mugs of hot tea
between points while spectators huddle in
parkas and mittens on the sidelines
complaining about the weather when we
should be writing psalms of gratitude
In praise of these lives so sweet
where this unseasonable cold
so tangible and unimportant
is the biggest worry we can conjure.
My Work In This World
My work in this world
wanders its cities in two bodies,
his, hers, once mine.
Bodies given, year by year,
all I knew of patience,
kindness, how a sense
of humor eases the rough patches.
But also captive witnesses to all
I knew of frustration, grief, anger.
Everything I had to offer
carried like a package inside their
own true selves.
And they go traveling
Half-formed and half-dressed
never bothering with a warm coat
determined not to shiver
and admit their mother was right.
They set off into this world that
will please and praise and batter them.
I chase them down the street,
waving mittens and advice, calling out,
Wait, there’s one more thing I forgot to tell you.
Flat Tire
Conjuring combinations with my capable son,
who took a deep breath and set to work
as we compared owner’s manual
and all the tools we had, we taught ourselves
how they fit together.
Coatless, he worked, with breaks for heat
and the loaf of olive bread in the grocery bag.
Now, hours later, warm and dry and home
my mind stops for breath in
its endless effort to sort things into bins
Luck or Fate, Blessing or Chance.
Whichever punctured our tire, held off the rain,
sent strangers and the summoned
friend of a friend with a better wrench,
What I hold to now is the way everything happens
and then wraps itself with meaning: My son in the world
calm and hungry, knowing what he lacks
and ready to smile and open his hands
to welcome what he needs. I even know exactly
what he would say reading this, rolling his eyes:
Mom, a wrench is just a wrench.
Morning Drive Time Zen
Farmers drive muddy tractors
along the highway, hauling
disc harrows and cultivators
to break up the hard dirt
of fields frozen all winter.
In equipment not meant
for paved roads, they drive
slow and rickety.
Their students follow
in a long line of cars,
drivers late for work, learning
to appreciate the sunlight
as it falls across the wooded
hills lit bright green again
past dark fields waiting
for the plow.
All together now, hills,
fields, farmers, commuters,
Practicing patience
or not.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 