poetry

sidebells wintergreen canticle

This responds to a prompt from the Emergence Magazine Nature Writing class, where we wrote a couple rough drafts then merged the parts we liked of each. This combines elements of mouthing the forest and sidebells wintergreen facts.

sidebells wintergreen canticle

if I press a leaf to my tongue
like a communion wafer
will it bring the Maine woods
right back into my body?
an act of transubstantiation
wintergreen not just standing in for but being
birch, granite, lupine
long-fingered bays
ice crystals suspended in air
all infusing my flesh
like blue juniper berries
pressed close under the skin
of a lean chicken breast
?

I crush a leaf and smell nothing
no, this Colorado wintergreen’s
just not the same
I give the one-sided bells a shake
and there’s only the silence of missing magic
but it’s time to stop looking elsewhere for awe
to grow content with what’s inside
the smallest circle of here

at hand, spruce sap bubbled on the bark
makes 4 small crystal balls
reflecting my place in the world back at me
at a time when divination’s a godsend
I press one gently, then bring finger to tongue
and savor the jolt of spruce essence
clearing my sinuses
fulfilling and fueling a new desire
for something missing from my day-to-day
like when a kiss divulged the plush inside of my lower lip
or when my left foot first stood firm
or my freed collarbones went warm for a week

I never quite stood the same
my ribs expanded
by how sharp life can be

poetry

not shopping

not shopping

almost a month
since I set foot in a store

probably the longest time in my life
except maybe college
(but I don’t think so –
College and Variety
Luigi’s and the Bookstore
Nothing but the Blues and Shaw’s
got a little of me here and there)

one month of gazing at the woods:
a terrible way to get better

poetry

Michal

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