the most perfect park
the most perfect afternoon
marred by words, actions
my innocent girl
who only wanted this day
not a broken mom
but it's just a blur
one day bleeds into the next
watered with defeat
High Water
childhood
A Tree Grows in Denver
family tradition:
plant trees for graduates
and watch how they grow
my mother's tree stands
at my great-aunt's former home
taller than us all
my sister's tree shades
disappearing middle-class
(our childhood home)
and my tree shocks me
evading the ash borer
with grandiose grace
Fuzzy Blooms
thank you for the “no.”
as phallic as this lupine
(allium ignored)
i will learn from this
(things i tell myself at night)
and grow a sagebrush
it will bloom purple
(you can’t see my true color)
and you can’t taste it
yet, here it blossoms
as beautiful as the home
you constantly loathe
i know. i know. i…
you don’t see what i see. stop.
but god. how it hurts.
Relish Them
these rare teen moments
everyone together; joy
minus jobs, school, stress
Flatiron Fresh
summer days beckon
drinks on rooftop patios
(mocktails for the kids)
the cold creek calls us
with shade, icy refreshment
from the sun’s harsh heat
and these cousins bond
under summer vacation
(our home is their heart)
Always in Line
i’ve tried hard for grins
as hard as they are to earn
(teen reality)
Sky Break Celebration
her party stayed dry
despite stress, rain, tent set-up
(smiles al around)
Sunflower Girl
entrepreneur
winning with her lemonade
even as a teen
Good Steps
three-thirty a.m.
my oldest’s footsteps. good steps.
intentional steps.
this is not a moon.
this is a lunar eclipse.
(Super-Flower-Blood)
and she’ll be gone soon.
(no early-morning steps).
and i. am. eclipsed.
shadows of loss win
the afternoon shines bright.
(we still have our moon)
Self-Directed
Just look at the flashing light. Put your feet on the pedals. Focus on the sign that says Colorado. Do not focus on every other thought that has entered your brain this evening. Do not stand staring at your garden, your half-dead peach tree, wishing for a different story.
Because this is your story.
Whatever words were exchanged in that beautiful garden of yours, that hand-weeded, hundreds-of-dollars-of-soil-and-plants garden in the midst of the steppe that is Denver, whatever sprouted from the peony that won’t quite bloom or the poppy you accidentally ripped out or the lupine that isn’t ready yet?
They are not your words.
They are his and hers, and you will never know nor understand.
Will they follow you across this intersection? Will they be at the back of your brain when you run that stop sign in front of the giant F250, thinking, “I dare you” thinking about that Denver Post-Washington Post-Colorado-New-York-Times article about the 47-year-old professional cyclist who got hit by a car and died instantly, thinking, “Now that’s the way to go”?
Will they take back everything you’ve said? Will they flash in front of him in front of you, like this imperfect sunset on the half-dead tree?
Will they tell the truth about the constant brutality of raising teenagers? Why don’t we continue to post graduation pics and scholarship offers and art shows and prom nights and not act like behind every moment is a harsh word, a lack of respect, a total disregard of your humanity?
Did I do everything wrong?
Did I do nothing right?
It’s all in this sunset that I can’t quite capture. In the words that I will never hear. In the betrayal that I will never understand.
It’s in my pedals, in this flashing light, as I stand staring at my garden and thinking, Maybe I should have stuck with plants and pups.
But I can’t even raise a peach tree.
And who’s going to raise me?
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