our first troop outing
fall colors, shimmering lake:
friendships arrive soon
with just seven words
you’ve taken away thousands
our picture no more
The year is ending;
we’re growing older.
Soon we’ll be Juniors,
bolder and bolder.
This year we’ve done
so many great events,
from camping to giving
everyone our two cents.
We started out small
and grew into this troop
that gathers cans and sells
cookies to support our group.
We’ve learned to sing
each new Brownie song
and to care for each other
all day, and all night, long.
We partied at Christmas
and again at Valentine’s,
learning our manners
in a matter of time.
Wonders of Water
taught us how to save,
for protecting our Earth
is the Girl Scout way.
World Thinking Day
taught us about the states,
we tasted many foods and
with our unit celebrated.
We mapped out xeriscaping
to help our new school;
we learned to snowshoe
and sled like no one’s fool.
We’re looking to the future,
to another great scouting year,
to earn more patches, have
more fun, and bring on Brownie cheer.
first it’s the wind–
a constant haunt
this time as cold as father winter
then it’s the sun–
at ten thousand feet
quite the mean magician
next it’s the rain–
slinking into the camp
on tails of snow
but it’s the circle i’ll remember–
the women’s voices
calling out ideas
like flashes of starlight
overwhelming me as always
reminding me
again and again and again
that just like that
constant haunt of wind
my love for my girls
all of my girls
is embedded here today.
we are girls becoming women
and women reliving girlhood.
all it takes
when times get rough
is a dodging-traffic drive
a sled down the mountain
endless screaming and dancing
a squished spider’s funeral
meals for twenty-eight
movies all night
and
the elixir of life
breathing wintry air on our skin,
popping out our souls
on the goosebumped flesh.
we are girls
girls
girls
becoming women.
What can I capture from today?
The angry parent email
with threat to principal and
superintendent, all over a book
she shouldn’t have read
(for surely she didn’t understand
its genuine meaning)?
The morose groans of CSAP prep
and note-taking
that I put my students through
year after year
(yet do they listen)?
Or
The perfect rectangle of dough
rolled and ready to fill
with a mix of scallions, dill,
butter, garlic, and parsley
(everything already chopped)
laid out by my husband’s hands?
The well-behaved seven-year-old
daughter who carried in posters,
collected pennies for tastes,
sat listening to every presentation
and (for once)
asked permission before every request?
The gutak herb fritters
and sour cream, cider vinegar,
lemon-pepper sauce
that filled everyone’s faces
with smiles and everyone’s
stomachs with thanks?
The choice,
just like my fretful decision to bake,
my too-young-to-be-married decision to marry,
my too-early-for-grandkids decision to have them anyway,
is obvious.
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