Wedding Dress

A wedding dress,
For a young lady,
Elegant, pretty,
Not just any dress,
A dress of passage.
Women gather,
Young and old,
Expectant,
Anticipating signs,
A meshing of fabric and lace,
And partially formed identity,
In suddely mature loveliness.
Beads sparkle,
In the young bride's eyes;
A smile forms that brings tears;
Faith is restored,
By a new beginning.

A Father’s Tale

His wife’s death was as easy
As the slow, soft rocking of
Her chair, before the fire.
She died young, she ceased
To rock long before he knew.
He was a busy man.
She was a memory he
Could not call back.

Thus it was that,
At forty-three years
He took up a crayon
And began to draw the
Garden where he played
Hide and seek between
The roses and the trees
When he was seven.
The old paths were dim,
Less sure where they were
Leading, cluttered with
Weeds that seemed useful
In the beginning for
Holding together the soil,
But that grew until
They had taken it up,
Become the soil, become
The fabric and the frame
So that the picture was
Indiscernible, its message
Lost in a memory he
Could not call back.

Rebirth has never been easy.
It took all of his second forty years—
He was a fortunate man—
To pull the weeds,
To get at the roots that
Suck and twine and curl
With the working of the earth,
To get them out
In time to rock before the fire
A few more hours
As the child he had been,
Drawing hides and seeks
And clean leading paths.

Until one day he ceased to rock,
Slow and soft before the fire,
Where I sat stupidly trying
To draw a memory
I could not call back.

Wanting

The view is numb.
Your words have gone cold,
I wish for the detail
That once hurt me,
The rocks in my path
Are smooth now,
The fields covered over
With ice and snow,
I am paralyzed with waiting.

Come My Friend

A poem based on childhood stories, for my girls.



Come my friend,
I will take you.
Morning after a rain.
Morning,
Dark still,
Quiet.
Wet and cool.

We’ll move
Stealthily,
Escape
Step into the grass,
Leave trouble sleeping,
Just this time.

We'll take a dirt path,
Soft and spongy,
Into the trees,
Aspens forming
A gate of sorts
Draped with
Unused expectation.

Leaving ours behind
We clear the gate,
Proceed anew,
Walk backward,
On tiptoe,
See if anyone
Is following.
A secret is more fun
With two.

We cross a stream.
A rough green log
Wobbles slightly
Under our weight.
Taking our time,
Striving for balance,
We cross,
Walk for hours
Until we are lighter.

Colors intensify.
Through the growth—
Through tangles of
Weed and willow,
A beaver pond
Shining in sunlight,
Stirring, rippling,
Shhhh,
A muskrat is working.

Hidden in shadow,
A spider’s web spans
Tree to tree;
It grips my face;
Distracted,
I struggle briefly with
The unexpected.

But there are bluebells to see,
Waist deep, and so many butterflies,
In so many weightless colors.
Strawberries so tiny, dainty,
And sweet--they must be fairy-food.
Toadstools, spotted and intense,
Growing at the path’s edges.
Waxy fungi cantilevered to tree bark,
Light through aspen leaves,
Lacy shadows on the forest floor.

Ferns; ferns, resting at the
Water’s edge, dipping their silly
Leaves into clear, cool water
Below lawns of lime green moss.
The stream makes them shimmy;
The water turns white
It churns over rock
And driftwood,
Toward the mountain’s base.

Nature captivates my attention
And my soul. I almost forget
The secret --why I brought you so far.
Henry, Dorothy and Freddie live
Here, deep in the forest,
In their ladybug houses.
If we are quiet,
We may see them.

Why?

Why struggle?
Why put up a fight?
Why be a rigid thing?
Bend.

Rachel at Nine

Freckles and sunshine,
Laughter and snuggles,
Unselfconscious
Dancing and singing;
Forest Monkey,
Jumping and screeching.
Scattered tears,
Occasional storm clouds,
Chance of pajama girl,
Love unconditional,
Freckles and sunshine.

“Grandpa,” My Father

Grandpa moves slowly
At 84, like an artsy movie,
Meticulous and careful,
Hard to comprehend.
Old bones showing through,
Tight and shiny skin,
Pale eyes that don’t disclose
Much but acceptance and joy,
A little tiredness, and
The occasional frustration
That technology brings.
A body determined to continue,
A life lived well.
But to what end?
I watch and I am amazed.
He never utters a desire,
A wish or a want,
Always helping,
Always serving,
No tomorrow, only today.
Surely if there is a heaven,
There must be a place
For someone like that.

New Day

Sometimes,
Early morning,
I sit on my front porch.

Faithful,
The sun does come,
Not hurried,
Not all at once,
But artfully,
Delicately,
Rock ledge to tree,
Illuminating mist,
Aspens shimmering,
Pink over emerald,
Lavender kisses.

I wrap my hands around
A warm cup of coffee
Bury myself, deep in my robe,
Pet the dog and surrender.

Remembering

Growing up
There was a tree
In my backyard
A redoak tree
With leaves
Scarlet,
Brown,
Green,
And in spring,
A color that reminded
For all the world,
Of turtles.
Rough multicolored bark
Branches
Right for climbing.
My tree.

I knew my tree.
Remember it still
Every aspect.
And so,
I know
I will remember you.

Sarah at 3 Months

You slept, twitching only slightly,
Damp hair against my breast.
In a small room that smelled slightly
Of plaster and tomato vines
Moths humming,
And us—rocking, rocking.
I slept too, and together we dreamed,
A farmhouse on a dirt road,
A dark branch and a woman,
A beautiful woman standing guard,
Her eyes, my eyes standing guard
Under the eaves as women do.

Tiger

I am young and hungry.
My love is an eerie snow
On the hillside, a tiger
In the eerie snow, crouching,
Emerald and amber.
Fierce and afraid.

Chukchi Hunter (National Geographic – February 1983)

Photograph:
A man,
In a fur hat,
Breathing smoke
Into a freeze
That came last August,
Under a spineless sun.
His eyes are dark;
Unmoving,
Believing,
Summer will come,
Knowing,
It will not
Come soon;
Last long.