Offering to the Air
all day Irish trad followed me
each time I started the car
Spotify announced the day
and who I am
and what it means
but when Willie Clancy played
Air: An Páistín Fionn
I recognized myself:
ashes, flame, keening, awe
and, sometimes, harmony
I think how Alex would say
play this at my funeral
but that’ll be too late –
play it today
and I won’t need to make
another pen stroke tonight
In memory of Michal Rae Graber. Photos are from Old Sheep Meadows Nursery.
Michal
her skilled hands turned out wonders:
hemmed curtains and flowery aprons
perfect pies from the tiniest kitchen
heirloom roses and brand-new daylilies
gardens planned with secluded nooks and deliberate views
seven fiercely independent and loyal children
a crisp white Federalist farmhouse that only grew better with time
and a completely different desert adobe
warm brown with cornflower blue-glazed window frames
that gazed on cacti with open affection
she moved with surprising efficiency
wielded a sharpshooter shovel
with more grace and speed at 60
than I could muscle at 20
and drove the big old blue truck loaded with bouquets
through the Old Port’s maze without blinking
if you complimented her
she’d fold her glasses-on-a-string
lean across the table
say I don’t know
but widen her laughing eyes
and give her head a little shake
simultaneously accepting and denying your praise
she gave me hugs
and paid-odd jobs
a home away from home
and a wonderful forever-friend
her littlest girl
whose hair she’d brush
just for the soothing closeness
most of all she wished to be gracious
to leave the world more beautiful
than before her hard work began
and though she’s more than earned her rest
we can’t help but mourn
for the cozy old keeping room
will never be the same
into the earth
today I bury
Mary & Will’s son
Patrick’s brother
my father
back to the earth
I give
the man who called me Hon
whose chest rumbled
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
in my ear every year
I bury snores that shook the house
and the click of the La-Z-Boy footrest
snapping into place
into the open ground
I put the smell of Scotch
and the crack of ice
the scent of Marlboros
and aftershave
I bury our single game of backgammon
and our many King’s Quests
here in the loam
I place Sundays
of Canadian bacon and eggs
glass Pepsi bottles
and the crossword
I bury a rough cheek
and a black fur fedora
with a jaunty red feather
old galoshes and new Buicks
under the turf
among the roots
I lower
our disappointment
yours and mine
at being who we are
today my heart heaps
soothing Walnut Creek clay
to bury the weight of trying
to ask the right questions
now I put the memory
of holding your hand
trying to undo loneliness
deep into the soil
today I bury
Ma’s grandson
Bill
my only Dad
