Long Months, Short Years

eighteen long months late,
we celebrate our friendship
of thirty short years

she survived COVID
now, we're both vaccinated
to celebrate love

what a perfect place
green grounds, infinity pool
for endless friendship

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

her party stayed dry
despite stress, rain, tent set-up
(smiles al around)

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)

graduation day
bleeds into normal doldrums
(life's quick, painful truths)

she graduates now
my baby girl, all grown up
in this Red Rock Land

from prom to vaccine
in a short eight-hour night
(let science save us)

there's no heartbreak here
just my girl, eighteen years old,
ready to face them

sneakers underneath
(pandemic proms are outdoors,
under tents, in grass)

she's taller, braver.
in her silver floor-length gown,
she masters the night

and aren't we a crowd?
this master-mix of humans,
standing on these rocks?

unsinkable us
right below the Molly Brown
(ready to swim. Win.)

first day of first job
(the best COVID milestone)
let us shed this slump

my girl’s accepted
into her dream universe 
filled with stardust, hope