the only thing better
than knowing we’ve helped the earth
just a tad
with our fresh cut tree
is coming home
from a long day at work
to a house
with a lingering smell of pine.
seasons
Marinated
on giant skewers
more sword-like than knife-like
they shave off our marinated meat.
we pile it on top of our
quail eggs, turkey salami,
and marinated mushroom salads.
they pop up every thirty seconds
until our plates are smaller than our eyes
and the tastes linger, love in our mouths.
you walk with me across this city, hands in pockets.
we look at all the lights. we stop
for coffee/tea in our bookstore.
the horses are decorated with glittered hooves
and Santa bells, antlers strapped on
and Mrs. Claus at the reigns.
we step into the tower again. the Santa-hatted
door man convinces us to go downstairs.
we laugh until we cry and miss the light rail.
the crisp winter air bites at our lungs
as we walk from stop to stop. images and tastes
boil up within my blood. you keep me warm.
it is three in the morning before we’re home.
the years have marinated, because we never did this,
not once, before we had them.
now it’s more glorious than any gift you could have given me.
was it the meal, the rainbow of lights on Larimer, the show?
i will never know. only passion will i remember.
The Market
it’s still here
this place i knew
where last i came
under these same sparkling
rays of light
as a teenager with friends
where we bought coffee
and chocolate
shipped in from Vermont
where we sat in
these same heart-shaped
wire-backed
uncomfortable wooden chairs
and laughed and laughed
and walked around
looking at expensive
hot cocoas
and liberal media magazines,
the same ones
that line the shelves this evening,
beer and dinner in our stomachs,
i fall in love all over again.
Music
the leaves left from fall
dance across our patio,
their crisp skeletal skins skidding
to the howling background hymn.
this same howling harmony
danced across the road today,
beating me down to my bones
as i pushed toward a quieter tune.
trapped inside a fluorescent prison,
i couldn’t quite find the melody
that with a few angry notes
the wind whipped out of me.
perhaps you stand somewhere
on the other side of the sky,
unable to hear the song i sing
amidst the howling, haunting music.
Writing My Bike
it came to me in the summer.
Writing My Bike:
this should be the name of my new blog.
will i only write when i ride?
will i only ride when i write?
winter’s creeping in
with bitter cold mornings
that make my pedals run stiffly,
my layered legs tight with frost,
my mittened hands gripping
the first wisps of light on early mornings.
He may try, but Jack Frost can’t deter me.
i’ll be writing my bike to the top
of a mountain in May (racing a train),
and i need these legs to pedal me
through everything that will come
between now and then.
Steam
my pies are filled with
fresh cranberries
Colorado apples
King Arthur flour
pastry cream
fresh chilled butter
sinful sugar
decadent chocolate
and perfect recipes.
i wish i could fill these pies with the
muscles i took to pound them
time it took to bake them
dishes piled up in the sink
farmers’ market filled with apples
bog where they harvested cranberries
with the
ache that fits in between the
layers of fruit and cream
the ache that won’t escape
from the lattice-topped steam.
Forever Season
they are small still
but not small enough.
i look at the magnet
of the fat-cheeked, bald baby
holding up the picture
of our young niece.
there she sits now,
her cheeks hollow, thin,
running her fingers across
the iPad and reading aloud
to the small sisters
who sit on either side of her.
how can this be?
how can i remember so well
the clearest moment of my life,
when i first became her mother,
their mother,
and it was just a moment ago,
i wish it were just a moment ago.
i want to take my Mason jars
and instead of canning tomatoes
trap beneath the lids
seal tight for a forever season
the years that have slipped
out of the bubbling steam of my kitchen,
out into the yard, the cul-de-sac, the school,
trap them there and stack
my three beauties in their youth,
displayed in sparkling rows
of love along my pantry shelf.
Seasoning
it is recipe,
apple,
zucchini,
pumpkin
season.
the kitchen smells
like cinnamon
concocted with cream
and nutmeg, cloves
pungent with their
pinch in the pie,
spiced apple skins
and pumpkin shells
lining the counter tops
and floors,
sticky with sweetness,
sticky with sweat.
hours at the stove steaming
and prodding and pulling,
wafts of breads,
pumpkin glop,
pies perfectly rounded,
pot roast waiting
for the midday meal.
it is recipe,
apple,
pumpkin,
zucchini,
bread,
pie,
harvest
season.
The Devil’s Show
they’re all decked out for
the devil’s birthday
(Hallelujah!)
in Princess Mulan,
clown, cheerleader,
lion, samurai, and pirate.
no hallelujah party for us tonight,
but steps down dark streets
ringing doorbells
and saying hello to neighbors
whose blown-up pumpkin balloons
hover like glowing monsters
over the kids’ trail of treats.
we’re devilish, aren’t we?
letting them plan out this night
for months, pulling seeds from pumpkins,
creating costumes to die for,
seeing them work up a sweat
in their mad dash for candy?
yes, we’ve missed the hallelujah party,
given in
to the American dream of Halloween,
but for one night a year,
when we all pretend to be
something other than ourselves,
when we all remember
the thrilled excitement of the candy rush,
i think this steals the devil’s show.
Emperor Penguin
I am the empress
you the emperor
as you sit for over a month,
our young tucked
beneath your flaps of skin, fur
protected from windy storms
harsher than hell
while I waddle my way
across Antarctica,
weak from giving birth,
starved from lack of fish,
the iciness engulfing me
until I feel I can move no more.
But it is you,
it is them,
huddled together in fatherly love,
that push me forward,
reaching the sea
with its wealth of life,
bringing it back
for you, for them,
for all of us to taste
as we form a new season.
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