Grieving

You know --
or think you do --
the life, the face
as familiar as your own
until,
watching you,
it's suddenly struck down,
leaving the rivers
which you once rowed to joy
now lethal with memory.
And then you come to know
that other world,
the following darkness:
the way the larks of grief
fly up into your face
each time you walk

the once familiar fields;
the way the grass,
once soft enough to roll in
now has edges sharp enough to scar
the feet that can hardly bear
to take another step;
each fallen leaf, once golden, now a grave;
the hands that, reaching out
to help, become instead a reminding slap:
Gone (Can I help you?)
Gone (Do you need me?)
Gone (You're always in my prayers...)

November 14

This feathered arm,
these leaves,
the scent of a damp
November forest,
all conspire
to both threaten
and reach out;
echoes of a child's confusion --
the hand that holds the whip
and then the food;
the brow that holds the scowl
and then the smile...
Like Christmas --
bright green promise
of a gift
and yet the red
of blood that is to come.

Always and ever
the paralyzing tension
between the longing to be seen
and the desperate need to hide;
caught between the hope and the despair
which colors every beauty that we see
with the threat of death beneath.

The leaf that pauses briefly
before drifting to the ground,
the moss that hides
the dark decay below --
how then do we choose to live?
Who dares accept the glory that is now,
ignore all thought of what might come,
all reminders of what transpired before;
to press her cheek against the soft green moss,
to fill her eyes with that red glowing fire
to know the sweet embrace of o'erwhelming Love.

Acres of light

Looking back
over a life
spent on farms
and in the fields;
knowing how long it's been
since her face has been touched
by any hand but her own,
she remembers
what it was like
to be young and in love;
with the sunflowers blooming --
acres of light.

They were married in autumn
when the cornsilk hung
like a veil over ripening ears.
and their first child -- conceived

in a jubilation of fresh-gathered hay --
appeared the next summer
when the sunflowers were blooming --
acres of light.

Acres of light --
whether covered with snow
or furrowed with mud in the springtime --
acres of light
just as far as they could see.
The view from the window
as she stood and did dishes --
the wide sky with its tall clouds
and those acres of light.

He's gone now, and the children
have grown and moved on.
The house now stands empty,
the fields gone to grass.
The wheels on her chair squeak
as she rolls to the window
and remembers the sunflowers,
acres of light.

Acres of light --
whether covered with sunflowers
or buried in snow --
acres of light
just as far as they could see.
The view from the window
as she stood and did dishes --
the wide sky with its tall clouds
and those acres of light.

This soft progression

After all the noise --
the loud hurrahs
of those who won
and the tears of those
who hoped to win and lost --
the caterpillar continues
his quiet march
across the leaves,
nibbling as he goes,
storing up the makings
for his next cocoon,
a furry, soft
inevitable progression
toward the butterfly
we know
is yet to come.

That time of year

When elections loom, familiar shapes

become more threatening,

the masks we wear more obvious,

and demons prowl the streets

in search of food for damaged souls;

the mouth of hell yawns wider,

and the roots of all our troubles

come springing to the surface,

reaching out to trip us up.

Familiar landmarks disappear:

fogged in -- or have they left for good?

If we can't see them,

can we assume they're there?

Walk carefully amid the lies;

ignore the beckoning darkness

and superstitious whisperings...

Dreaming of Venice

Winter closes in,
dark presses on the windows, cold,
and tucking her feet beneath her
she settles in her chair
to dream of Venice;
of aqua seas and ancient palazzos
blushing in the dying light,
the songs of sweet-voiced gondoliers
echoing across the narrow canals;
the taste of gelato,
cool upon the tongue,
and, oh, the subtlety
of color, and of light;
the beauty that awaits
round every corner;
tucked in every calle and sottoportego...

Come-hither glance

After days of pouring rain,
the clouds lifted their skirts
for just a moment,
giving us a glimpse
of what's been going on
behind the scenes:
up in the mountains,
all that rain had turned to snow,
and the dark hills,
brown for months on end,
are gleaming white again,
sending us a brief
come-hither glance,
an alluring invitation,
tempting us to escape
to higher ground...