Tag: Black Hawk

poetry

Double-digit Cedar

Posted on

Double-digit Cedar

he wants a world
where all the pieces fit
where positive and negative balance
and everything adds up
but he also does his best
to quadruple his luck
dousing himself at the spring

he surrounds himself
with cute and fuzzy
and finds new ways
to leap off windowsills
and hammock extremely
and he finds a way into
any mud puddle out there

his sweetness matches his size
and although he’s getting closer
to eye-level every day
he still comes and finds me at the spruce
still joins me under the canopy of sky
still shares his stuffy wealth with me
still is my little son
with the extra big heart

poetry

20 memories

Posted on

20 memories

3 people squeezed on a school bus seat
riding home from Clambake
each skinny, saying
I’m sorry my hips are so big

♡

lying on the floor in Hedge
someone offers us a second pillow
we decline
our fates are sealed

♡

driving through the Maine woods
you at the Wheel
of the Spirit of ‘76
then waiting patiently
while I learned harp

♡

walking to a hardware store
at the counter you said
we need a wrench
I grinned –
we existed
and you knew
how to fix things

♡

getting used to
grey striped Peruvian blankets
forgetting that they itch

♡

first backpacking trip
unable to lift the pack
I thought
I can’t do this
after a day camping off in the woods
Gary Snyder running through my mind
deciding
we could live this way forever

♡

our sleeping bags on Mount David
you me the cold stars joy

♡

migraine in the middle of the night
I called you, scared
you walked to me in the dark
and held my head

♡

1993
EMS gave us free trees
we illegally planted on Green Mountain
our oldest descendants

♡

standing in the field
watching dozens of herons
on their nests –
found magic

♡

puppy Chavo
one soft ear folded forward
tail unsure about curling
red collar so loose about his neck
head tilted
listening

♡

on the Molehill
in the dark
a bottle of wine
a perfect proposal
punctuated by skunk spray

♡

starting our honeymoon
taking the backroads
to Pennsylvania in August
‘84 Subaru
no AC
who else but us
does this?

♡

in the stillness of Lenin’s tomb
my glasses case snaps shut
the AK-wielding soldier
is not amused
when we escape
we can’t stop laughing

♡

riding ponies in Mongolia
nothing but land and sky before us
hours later, back at the ger
muscles so sore
we must strategize
about how to
lie down

♡

staking out your bike at Macky
then seeing our house
knowing it was right

♡

crying each time
we met our
perfectly beautiful
healthy strong
sons

♡

standing on the broad top
of Longs Peak with you
twice
feeling safe

♡

finding Elk Lake
after all those years
sleeping as far from roads
as a Coloradan can

♡

you standing beside me
for three funerals
and all that came before them

♡

there’s no way to fully catalog
you + me
no way to save
every miraculous kindness done
or extraordinary experience shared
I have no doubts
the next score of years
we’ll love being together
even more

poetry

meeting Camilo the green-cheeked conure

Posted on

meeting Camilo the green-cheeked conure

his little golden body hesitated
then his small pale beak
gently probed my index knuckle
and, finding it firm, fleshed, human
(though likely not as kind as my son’s)
he bridged the gap
between my son and me
straddling his hand and mine
then stepped over
accepting me enough
to enter my sphere

what joy
to hold another life
sweet as pineapple rings
glowing like sunset
to be found worthy of trust
at least for that moment

in this world
split into us and other
with limitless capacity
for cruelty,
like my sons
this little bird reaches out to me
and holds my hand
entrusts himself to my care
allows us
a chance to be gentle with each other
to see life
from another eye-level

poetry

Father’s Day

Posted on

Father’s Day

for maybe the first time
I felt no void this day
no sense of want or lacking

the day washed over me
a clear simple wave
celebrated with my husband
sons
father-in-law

there was a freedom
in not needing more
a peace
in feeling whole

even after the phone rang
it was so easy
to be good

poetry

solstice gift

Posted on

solstice gift

our boys passed the day
harmoniously
lightening all
within their spheres

poetry

solstice eve

Posted on

solstice eve

today the light still grows longer
spring exhales a last sigh of
cold grey rain
the meadows array themselves
in purple iris, orange wallflower,
golden banner, red paintbrush
blue mist penstemon
hot pink shooting star
readying for tomorrow’s solarbration
the wheel begins to creak and turn
our hearts begin to shift:
how to weather summer’s forge
how to keep calm hearts and attentive minds
when light goes white hot
and the cities burn
how to practice restraint when burning up
and wait like still water
how to have faith in humanity’s
capacity to survive and heal
how to rise up like a storm surge
when our movement is needed
may it be so

poetry

the mercy of the heavens

Posted on

the mercy of the heavens

yesterday the mountain spoke
with a raspy, parched voice
green going to brown
supple turning to crisp

today the clouds heard and answered
with half a day of rain
and such chill damp
that I split wood and lit the stove

tomorrow I will go out
into the newly wet and green world
to smell loosed resin and steaming duff
and recollect the appearance
of a simple answered prayer

poetry

conscious breathing

Posted on

conscious breathing

Every time you breathe, you exhale some 25 sextillion (that’s 2.5 × 1022) molecules of oxygen – so many that with a day’s breathing you will in all likelihood inhale at least one molecule from the breaths of every person who has ever lived. And every person who lives from now until the sun burns out will from time to time breathe in a bit of you. At the atomic level, we are in a sense eternal.

Bill Bryson, The Body: A Guide for Occupants

breathing in the breath
of every being
that has been
fueled the same way
as despots and saints

breathing out the breath
that will become
part of every being to be
we are not so different
not so separate
not so alone

I take in courage and compassion
send out forgiveness and love
in case you need it

you –
my sons
Rosa the flycatcher patient on her nest
the bright orange wallflower feeding the fritillary
the garter snake sleeping sound under the tree roots
the man who tossed his cigarette butt on the trail today
the unmasked righteous person somewhere in my path
breathing out sentences nobody sees

poetry

COVID haircuts

Posted on

COVID haircuts

my boys bow their heads
and trust me with the scissors

like so many other bits of parenting
I’ve never done this before

at the first bite of shear against hair
Cedar squeals

my knitting scissors, the sharpest we have,
tug his locks as they slice

he fidgets and questions –
things he wouldn’t do with the barber –

and when the tips of the blades
nip him above the ear

we both know this cut is over
even with no blood drawn

I’m slightly more practiced for Owen
(the reverse of our usual pattern)

I know to use my left hand
as a guard against maiming

only cut my own flesh this time
and say nothing of the small red thread

I start with his bangs
the most critical, bothersome part

in case this session is also abruptly ended
by my carelessness

he is patient
I am sloppy

but manage to at least
give him back his sight

in the end he looks younger –
the opposite of a skilled cut –

but before bed after shower
washed, brushed, and slicked to the side

he looks presentable
says something about liking it short

as always
I bow to my children next

thankful for the latest new thing
they’ve allowed me to learn

poetry

snack time

Posted on

snack time

on the summit of Jumbo Mountain
crashing thunder

a bear bowls
one boulder into the next

leaves a tasty ant nest
open to sky

my bones almost register
the hard crack of rock on rock