weather

What They’ll Remember

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what they’ll remember
is this fire that
shuts out the frigid winter
with a crackle and zip,
a whip to the wind;
this shuffling of places
on the couch,
bottoms in laps,
blankets bundled in
heaps of warmth;
this mother with arms
wrapping love around them
as they switch places
and fight for their turn;
this father playing monster
from the floor,
his whiskery face
lit up amongst the flames;
this quiet game that
lets all the talks out
and erupts in unsuppressible
jubilant giggles.

what they’ll remember
is nothing else from
this day,
this night,
this part of their lives,
nothing but
love and warmth and happiness.

Cold

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the cold has set in
marching our hands to our mouths
our breath escaping
into the Christmas-lit night
as if carried by ghosts.

i listen to my favorite song
by Jakob Dylan,
summer on my mind.
if it refuses to snow
then i refuse to accept
that winter is only days away.

the cold has set in
creeping into my skin
reminding me
of the darkness behind the light
the hollow hiding behind this night.

Marinated

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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.

Music

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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

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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.

The Theatre

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We stand in tights, leggings, skirts,
a tie and jacket, dolled up as much as
our fellow theatre-goers
waiting for the train.

Our breaths form miniature clouds
as they enter the humid night air.
We shuffle our feet, clap our hands,
pull up our hoods, rejoice at the lights
of the train curving around the tracks.

Everyone says, How old are they?
Going to the theatre? Shrek tonight?
Beautiful girls, beautiful, beautiful girls.
As we stand clutching the pole, no room.

It couldn’t be better. The pictures we took
(soon to be Christmas cards), the lipstick
now smearing across their cheeks,
the laugh-your-ass-off musical of our dreams.

Four, six, almost eight, I tell them.
They say it only gets better. But how can it
be better than this? Dinner at a local restaurant,
riding the train downtown, the theatre,
three little, little girls as proud as new parents?

We’ll see. For now, I take their tiny hands in mine,
dash through the tunnel with lights that
ring at their anxious pats, their pink jackets
and polka-dot tights reminding me of the youth
we all have within us, the youth, the love we crave.

Emperor Penguin

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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.

Hover, Reach

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hovering over the highway
gray clouds attempt to rain
in a swirl of condensation
they reach down toward earth.

i watch the gas gauge hover on empty
as the rain stays high
unable to bring relief
to a guzzling, thirsty world.

we make it home and i promise
not to drive this van for a week
just as everyone posts complaints
about the football game.

it is stuttered like the rain
unable to fall, unable to win,
so close to what we can see
but in our ignorance can’t reach.

Autumnal Arrival

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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.

Wind (Personified)

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the wind tries to
dominate our day
but we pedal anyway

the wind beats up
giant clouds of dust
(to the pumpkin fest or bust)

the wind reaches out
to grab them from the air
but pumpkin launchers couldn’t care

the wind helps us
with a tailwind home
kicking up leaves wherever we roam.