Ursus
in the dark
a stiff snort
and out of the black shadows
comes an even darker lumbering shape
shaggy hungry clawed and climbing
it’s our springtime wake-up call
the mountains are coming alive
(even now in these peak weeks of death)
and with all that motion and growth and melting
come the bears
groggy and ravenous
but still polite enough to let you know
they’re watching
masked Americans
we’re a nation of outlaws
bandanas pulled up to our eyeballs
or faces defiantly bare
we don’t take orders kindly
them who’re crafty will survive
and for them that don’t
there’s a mass grave waiting
the potter’s field
a place where people
become bodies
become numbers
become liabilities
and while we’re all distracted
hand-sewing cloth masks
the usual suspects are
making off with our future
breath sold to the highest bidder
toilet paper $16 a pack
elections continued
though voting’s impossible
next the disease
will get its own ™
symptomatic vocabulary
blue sky sprites
words that would have given me hope
four years ago
my body’s white blood cells
pulling out all the stops
working to bring me right
but without those words
my vision was clouded
another bit of normal
perhaps forever gone
grey drifts of dots
descending slowly
every time I blinked
blue sky sprites
if only someone had given me
these three words to hold on to
a whole new way of seeing
this change that typhus wrought
I would have worried a little less
believed in magic a little more
saying no to family
we’ll come up and see you
they say with easy smiles
and we say nothing
in these days
when the whole world has gotten
as small as our front door
and good intentions mean nothing
with death on everyone’s hands
we’ll see
we finally say
(meaning no)
see you soon!
they reply
not understanding the difference
between family and household
or how they’re asking us
to put their lives in our hands
April 1 – Insured
as I complete the morning ritual
of hanging the birdfeeders
I smile with relief –
today is our first day back in America
when illness might not ruin us
on not winter-camping
once the dark falls
I draw the cabin walls around me
filling them with wood and warmth
shutting out the fox’s screams
loose ends
gliding through aspen and spruce
the question arises unbidden –
what unfinished business do I have?
mostly the same as any mother
any wife
any daughter
any sister
and then the book I have been writing
all these late nights for years
unsent
unpublished
unimportant
otherwise
I think all the people I love know
and now all that’s left
is to sink into the skis’ kick and glide
think thank you over and over
and pray for mercy
called home early
our adventure cut short
no sloths or macaws
Temple of the Sun
Bosque Eterno de los Niños
Panamanian private island
really no March April May plans left
probably not even empty Seawall Beach in June
our one year off hacked by a third
down the drain
alongside a pile of cash
but
we regained a winter
and a neighborhood fox
the moon waxes right to left again
our boys learn how to stand on skis
our lessons in slowing down
have been taken to the extreme
I sit with Moon Creek every day
its news an antidote to mine
more importantly
our family knows we will not leave them
we’re as safe as Americans can be
we’re done debating how long to hold out
we still have our foursome to hug
and no one we love has died alone yet
there is never a good time
for terrible events
and just look what we packed
into those six short months
we were lucky to live so large
denning bears
tonight we will sleep
each in our own places
the deep slumber
of denning bears
so warm in our thick black coats
in our cozy hollows
of thick white snow
where no wind stirs
we will dream
calm safe dreams
of honey in unguarded hives
and salmon that jump
into our open mouths
trusting that when winter
eases its grasp
and it’s time to
muscle our way
out of the drifts
the sun will be there to warm us
the roots will be ready to nourish us
and our ancestors have already made
clear paths we can follow
to finally drink fresh water
and feel the crisp clean air
settling deep into our lungs
until all our old stale breaths
are wrung right out
yes, you and I,
each in our quiet den,
a mountain or more apart,
we trust implicitly
that there will still be a world
worth waking for
and our cubs will be
just fine
Uncertain Love Poem
Today I am falling in love with snow falling –
air moving water from one basin to the next –
while Moon Creek refuses to freeze.
I am falling in love with our modern life
transformed into a black-and-white photograph –
monochromatic woods of white snow and charcoal trunks;
our thoughts so much more basic this March than last –
where to find flour
how to wash hands to survive
which board game to play today.
I am falling in love with the mysterious intact orange
our boys found in a snowbank,
now halved on the deck,
an offering for orioles
who may never arrive.
I am falling in love with uncertainty,
I tell myself without buying it.
My mouth still goes sour
at each unknown we’re forced to swallow now.
Honestly, I am just falling into a holding pattern,
making a new space in my mind
where not knowing is allowed
(if not warmly welcomed).
This year the universe keeps pounding on my door
like the house is on fire,
desperately trying to wake me up,
shaking me in my bed until I will repeat after it:
you don’t need to know what’s next.
In fact, you may never get to know what happened.
All that’s left for you to know, to trust, to believe,
is that if you squint hard enough
there will always be something in your field of view
worthy of your love.
