thanks for the quick
and painful reminder
of why i never ask you for anything.
i’ll just tuck it under my sleeve
with all the others
that are crammed somewhere
in my layers of clothing
and try to use your reminder
(and its inability to keep me warm)
as a reminder
of how much more
i need to
reach out to them,
strip them free
of useless, painful notes
and wrap them in
the warmth of love
that your reminder
has tried to take from my heart.
renewal
Autumnal Arrival
fall arrived with yesterday’s wind
just as i said a storm was coming.
rain pelts the windows,
startles the sidewalks.
absent for months,
when summer needed its moisture,
it mocks the golden-red leaves
and glistens the world with
the season that they have
ached for, begged for, for months.
i miss yesterday
when the sun still streaked
across the plains
and shorts were still acceptable.
and the girls? they spent
every afternoon, evening, night
relishing in the warmth
of a gluttonous season.
but here it is
a reminder of what we want
(to have or to let go of)
and it is here to stay
(autumn? here to stay?)
change is here to stay.
Pie
how strange it is to hear them
in the back seat of our car,
though they belong to us.
wasn’t it only a moment ago
that he and i drove down this road
and stopped at Village Inn for pie,
a Friday night with nowhere to go,
nothing to do, no responsibilities?
they chirp their wonderings like baby birds,
but they are no longer babies
as they sing in Spanish the
possibilities of what color
Doctor Dino, the preschool
take-home toy, will be next year, as he
has changed from blue to red to green
in the hands of oldest, middle, youngest.
Denver, too, has changed since i first,
at age eleven, took a bus across town
with my friend, eating lunch in
the Tabor Center and pretending to shop.
now the light rail has taken us here,
to a Convention Center that didn’t exist
amongst fancy four-star hotels built up
like mocking gods in the face of recession.
he and i, we are not the same either.
there will be no stop at Village Inn,
no pie. instead we listen:
“Va ser… ¡rojo! ¡rosario! ¡amarillo! ¡azul!”
and i think, we’ll never know the color.
our baby will be out of preschool, Doctor Dino
will be in some other little girl’s home,
and these streets? they’ll never stay the same.
Twenty Clicks
with twenty clicks
and a bowlful of anticipation
i await the shoes
that will take her
farther than my words
ever could,
even when i walked
alongside her jagged steps
and plucked her words
from the page into my memory.
i can already see them on her feet:
perfect and smooth, the bone,
perfect and smooth, the metal.
and her face? a picture
of deference wrapped up
in an ever-polite smile.
with twenty clicks
and a mouthful of anticipation
i await the shoes
that will take her
farther than my words alone
could carry her.
Suffering
how it seeps into our lives
like acid rain in the gutter of our world
and though we scrub our skin
and mop the stained pavement,
it returns, dark and thick, unblockable.
how it creeps into our lives
with chirps and whistles, childlike,
hidden between the pages of our books,
behind the minor notes of major music,
its words and melodies compiled
into a cacophonous calamity of sadness.
how it breathes its life into our lives,
slithering snakelike into the brightest moments,
reminding us of who we could be,
of what within us we have lost,
of who we are in this moment, this
undefinable, sorrowful,
searching-for-meaning moment of suffering.
Renewal
how it haunts her
aching and bright
a flash in the night
how it haunts her
taunting and cruel
calling her fool
how it teases
sneaky and mean
defiling the clean
how it teases
quick and abrupt
her heart now corrupt
how it breaks her
shatters and bits
degrading her wits
how it breaks her
blades and fires
lost with desires
how it heals her
sorrows and loss
rock-bottom moss
how it heals her
beginnings and ends
renewal ascends.
Patio
how nice
as fall closes in
that we sit here with our dinner
(one last time?)
and listen
as the wind whistles
through our getting-taller trees
and the girls dive on and off
their matching swings
and the dry air tickles
our perfect-temp skin
and we can be, just be,
the perfect family.
Young Blood
caked in dirt as thick as frosting,
dripping in young-blooded sweat,
hand-carved spears cutting the air,
savage screams of hungry hunters,
sparkling laughter thrown into the wind,
they emerge from the forested fort.
not once in forty-eight hours
have iPodiPadMacBookCellPhone
inundated their young blood
(nor our old blood)
and without a single complaint,
we gather them together so
caked in sticky white clouds of s’mores,
campfire-smoke-ridden clothing and skin,
hot metal spears cutting into the ash,
thrilled screams of sugar highs,
sparkling laughter thrown into the stars,
they emerge from the perfect weekend.
One Stretch of Road
one stretch of road
that all my life
living here
i’ve never seen
how it curves and dips
reveals a view
of peaks and forests
of bicyclists making
their way to their next destination
(here is where the heart is)
of log cabins
and tiny towns
hidden trails
and geocaches
campgrounds tucked in
amongst aspens
and dirt roads
and i am reminded
(do i need a reminder?)
of why i am here,
why we are here
here
here
on this curvy
dipping winding road
that takes us home.
Sorrow, Love
it’s the witching hour
and here, all across town,
evils have worked their way into
the darkness engulfing us.
as quiet as a kitten snuffling
against the door, she whispers
that she is sick,
that she needs help.
with ginger hands we strip
off her sodden clothes,
and i run a washcloth under
water so hot it might sting her.
up and down her small body
i wipe away the illness, then
slip the clean nightgown over
her head in one anxious movement.
the new (old) bed in the green room awaits.
she crawls in and i whisper,
Do you want me to lie here with you?
she whimpers and nods, words lost.
i ask her to move over a bit,
but before i have slid in beside her,
she has inched her body wholly
against mine, her fingers on my face.
When you were a baby, I say,
the tears already sliding down my cheeks,
we used to share this bed every night,
just you and me, girl.
he comes in, offers to replace me,
but he can see the tracks down my cheeks,
her tiny fingers on my chin,
and without another word,
leaves us in our bed of sorrow, love.
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