Puff Of Smoke Poems

Look around—
When news is bleak
When world is frozen, hunched over,
look for light, for warmth,
for joy or the memory of joy—
street lights and porch lights and headlights
shining in the valley,
your love’s smile, those blue eyes,
how your toddler child felt in your arms once upon a time.
Or look at the bowl of clementines
glowing in their orange coats
while a sweet dog nuzzles the back of your knees,
A candle lit,
A laughing friend,
A delicious dinner, delicious book,
delicious date on the calendar to anticipate,
to mark with a smile.
None of it saves the world today.
Notice and say thank you anyway
and you can save this moment,
here in your heart in the hard world
Your heart, which is always the place where you live

Just your Pez head
in the parking lot—
We rush in and out with our
noise of laughter and homework
flurries of sneakered feet and gossip
trampling snow into slush
while you, all day
can contemplate this bright
blue January sky

I am hurried, harried,
hunched over the hoarded treasure
of every minute. You, too?
Do you hover, mutter to yourself
to make haste, to get to the next minute’s
task, and the next?

Today, our homework:
Hold time in an open palm
Stretch your body
Even you
Even I
have time to stretch for one long breath
and then another.

Our long lists will wait for us.
Maybe they will grow calmer too
as they watch us—each inked-in item:
Meeting agenda,
Grocery list,
Gifts waiting to be wrapped and unwrapped—
Maybe they will wait with more patience now
the agenda to include cookies,
the milk and bread and clementines dozing
in the grocer’s cart,
the unwrapped recognizing
this gift of now

again this morning
our dogs bark—
Voices leap from
sleep to frenzy in one
breath. They bark
to announce what?
Murderers in the yard?
Bears? Bad dreams?
A mysterious passerby
only they can hear?
Or just for the joy of noise?
What sound do you make
when you yearn to be heard?

without the snow brush
lost somewhere deep in the calendar
only sensible option?
Pour more coffee

untangle the laptop’s power cord
Charge what has been
asleep for weeks,
packed in a moving crate.
Careful.
Do not let the power cord clack against the floor
which would wake the napping dogs
ever ready to romp.

Try to be quiet about it.

It’s not that words are knocking
but they are nearby somewhere
maybe sauntering up the long hill of what
is now your dirt driveway
Remember? Move slowly in their direction
till you see all the loose letters, spiky consonants
and cozy round vowels come closer
Come, closer

Watch frantic all day
but
only need
some forest time,
honey

As a young waitress
long ago
I learned to balance a full tray
on one hand.

Long ago.
As all the young, I was
Confident
I had what I needed
to carry me through—
with enough practice and my own two hands.

Only decades later
I discover that this permanent wave
of wobbliness
Is normal
Is how it should be.
Our actual trays (I’ve come to see)
are not round and can never be
Steady for long—our trays have lovers and globes,
children and work and art and take out the
trash and call your friend and walk the dog
and eat delicious food—and there is
an eternal fork or wine goblet precariously tilted
at the edge of balance
and oh always shifting
Balance is a wave.
We help each other, reaching for the
fork before it clangs to the floor,
the goblet before it shatters and spills the wine

there were leaves flaring
on hills, pumpkins,
purple asters,
harvest moon
in the sky and in the songs—
Shine on, and
Come a little bit closer—
so it was usually my number one pick
even before.
Then?
Then you arrived, a whole new person
I grew. Long legs and wild blond curls,
Unique and shining, close and alive, here.
So, the answer is always
autumn.

Hydrangea flowers, pink green white
I cut and gather them into
The old, scratched purple vase
Where they arrange themselves and glow
Whether any of us notice or not.

They do this every day
Through divisive debates between powerful people
Through our debates about whether or not
to stay awake late to listen to them argue
And say you are wrong wrong wrong

And today? The hydrangeas will glow all day
Alone in the house
While we are out in the world
Remembering where we were that other
September
Measuring it against where we are now
And none of our measurements will
Be counted in blossoms
In flowers that bloomed and passed
And offered us respite
Offered a piece of the world to comfort us
From the other pieces of our world
Crashing while flowers glowed