In Praise of Stiff Wind
walking around the reservoir
blasted by invigorating wind
all we can do is laugh
at the immense blessing
of being given to one another;
of knowing someone else
who sings this song
Tag: love poem
truce (a love poem)
truce (a love poem)
because your unbeing is possible
today in the middle of our muddle about
showers
I collapse
fall like a drop
onto your bed
and surrender
this is so dumb for us to be arguing about
I throw in the towel
and, disarmed, you agree and
we cease
to struggle
both knowing how now will be then
and not wanting to look back wistful
disappointed in ourselves and our carelessness
not wanting to squander love’s warmth
on righteousness
first night at the cabin
first night at the cabin
burning our wedding candle
twenty-one years later
at nine thousand feet
surrounded by snow
the flame gives me joy
I don’t worry it will go out
or burn the house down
I just admire
its warm glow
on my bare skin
after the trifecta
after the trifecta
after all these days weeks months years
we still genuinely like each other
(harder to achieve than loving)
for this and all the other joys
that have come along with
these three main lights in my life
may I always feel grateful and blessed
even in dark hours
mine or theirs or ours
you’d never give up on me
he says
no, I wouldn’t
I agree
may it always be so
even when the road’s nearly washed out
and the lightning’s going sideways
and the rain’s a perpendicular blur
there’s always the distinct possibility
we’re headed straight toward rainbow
20 memories
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
a new take on an old idea
a new take on an old idea
it’s been done for thousands of years
knit one sock
then do it all again
old women and young
twisting the yarn
wind-chapped fishermen
pulling one loop through the next
casting off then on
catching their foot in a net
knowing how it will all play out
going through the motions anyway
now here comes a new way
make one tube
and with some waste yarn
work in places for the heels to grow and bend,
the bond that kisses the toes to separate
the two still made from the same stuff
now independent
still warm cheery delicate
without retreading the same path
but as for me
I’d still do it all again
(or at least most of it –
I’d skip the concussions if I could)
I’m not casting about
for anything new
Moon Gulch to Robertsons
Moon Gulch to Robertsons
little family
fleeing here all in a ruffle
disappointment dripping
from your deflated backpacks
when will you learn
that like the everywhen
there’s an everywhere
here I am
wherever you are
radiant with wonders
while you go tallying up your
unseen sloths and pufflegs
missed bays and unexplored jungles
I’m sending you a fox
who will walk right up to you
day after day
and right now a big black bear
is on his way to steal your suet
he’ll climb the tree directly under the floodlight –
yes, even while you watch
I’m making a long winter for you
who chased the sun so long
and Moon Creek is practicing her scales now
to sing you to sleep
hummingbirds, nuthatches, kinglets,
two kinds of chickadees –
they’re on their way to fill your kitchen window now
there will be moose to track
and the first wildflowers to find
and, for a time,
there at the end of the plowed road,
you’ll have it to yourselves
I’m putting out pine cones
and mysterious bones for the children
and quiet stars and the axe
and the wood that needs splitting
for the frustrated adults
so your hearts may come into calmness
and most of all
I’m giving you slow and still
and a while to call a place home
staying away
staying away
as long as we don’t meet
I’ll know it’s not my fault
(anything that might happen)
and how could I live
with having harmed you?
we all say these words
to everyone now
stay alone for all of you,
our loves who we most long
to wrap our arms around
to share breath together
(the Māori know)
makes us most alive
but I can’t risk
robbing you of yours
so we’ll stay alone in our little
forced-air windows
saying hello through flickering screens
where we can’t smell spring
together
loose ends
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
