Puff Of Smoke Poems

“Remembering you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”  Steve Jobs, quoted on The Writers Almanac, 24 Feb. 2015.
Ladies of a certain age
do not hasten to the bagginess
of nakedness we
have learned even clothed
to follow the heart
after years of lovenotlove
children or not
jobs and homes and
pleasing, trying and pleasing
and being such very good girls
we have let go of much we
learned the steps by practice
losing keys and houses and people
oh my tribe
naked or not they are dancing
towards their hearts

The sun we barely remember
hides all winter in the barn
clever sun concealed
but stealing glimpses
between weather battered boards.

This season abides
in a box labeled Endure
Beneath the lid, cold
beauty, fairy lights,
cozy treasures
but still
the box is unwieldy
oddly shaped it fits
none of our shelves
being much too large
and every white corner
stretches too far

To Northern eyes
every wave might
by a trick of the light
hide a cresting dolphin
pelicans and palm trees
are real enough but
river coconuts in pairs
or bobbing trios
frolic near the pier,
carried by the current
amazing floating coconuts
or possibly papayas
keep imitating a family
of happy manatees

Too early. Or late.
In either direction
the wrong time
to be awake
discovering
oxymorons
stumbling around
such as, for example,
pleasure travel
which is the symptom
that shows exactly
why you’d better

this world of old hills
lumbering gently into the distance
horizon propping up the clouds
this scene visible all day, every day
the Purpose
of this world
may not be
to lighten hearts or
widen our perspective
perhaps this hill view
is only
a side effect
of a world with
another goal altogether
perhaps this vista is
a lovely bonus
a free gift with purchase

Ignored to tatters
blown into corners
winter’s leaves settle
Crackled, unignited
and waiting
for a breeze
or a broom
or a flame

Imagine a town
without shovels or plows
a small place,
just a village really
where they wait for snow
to melt in its own good time
write to me and tell me about
where headlights on a snowblower
is the stuff of story, too bizarre
to be believed. Write to me
about this tiny world where
there are no instructions on
how to pierce the world’s
thick skin with Haste.

But winter’s best gift is
this forgotten space
which only craves color.
When months keep bringing white
only white, then this secret door
Opens–orange scarf on green chair
purple mittens dropped in snow
on the desk this canning jar
filled with colored pens
is enough to hold it open
Enough for now

Inspiration: The Child and The Fox, illustration by Hsiao-Ron Cheng

In this fairy tale
the only things hard or clackety
are buttons and birch trees.
For the rest,
wind and shadow
breath and silence
sleeping fox would never
lie so still only
death can wait
so patiently see how
small and so soft
beneath, and beneath
the slow falling snow