decisions
four fires
in one day
in our county
today
I tell my son
of the first smoke plume I saw
years after moving here
none more seen for years
now there’s something new
in the weather forecast –
fire watch:
like tornados, but longer
more hot windy nervous weather
on the horizon
how many go bags
should we pack?
how far away is far enough?
how close is still safe?
The View from Bear Peak
we climb Bear Peak
and take in the beige haze
the magenta slurry line
the brown and black trees
of the NCAR Fire’s modest burn
and the forest-green line
where the grass fire is regrowing
we see a plume of smoke
out toward Lagerman perhaps
and look toward Lyons
to be sure that fire’s out
our puppy swims
in the Cragmoor stock pond
already green in April
and later that afternoon
when he vomits three times
we worry about blue green algae,
which kills dogs within hours
no one we’ve known
has lived this way
not knowing what to expect
from the earth or the sky
this wariness toward the land
and the toxins all around
disorienting, exhausting, disheartening
disconnection mounts
and fear moves in
so much that once was a balm
becomes another source of dis-ease
House Rock Valley Sunset
the last rays of sun fire the sky
and one son announces
he has a headache
and a runny nose
I help casually
without saying what I’m thinking:
is this our last pre-Covid-life sunset
and, if so,
will it take someone we love down
or
is this our last pre-Covid-life sunset
and, if so,
will it wash over us in an easy wave –
a bit of headache here
a scratchy throat there
will it leave us shaking our heads
at our years of precautions
friendships lost for nothing
so much restraint for so little cause
or at our reckless last week
unmasked with the masses
at the Grand Canyon
ears filled with other languages
noses filled with who knows what
but maybe
it’s just our last Arizona sunset til next year
unremarkable except for its normalcy
unworthy of this account
Ode to Betsy’s Linen (Valspar #7005-16)
at Bates
I gained an appreciation for
off-white:
all the cream correspondence they sent
before I even arrived,
every dorm wall and pipe
painted this warmer
easier-to-be-in shade,
not blinding white but ivory
and now for years and years
we’ve dipped our brushes in
“Betsy’s Linen,”
her tentative cheeriness
papering over whatever other gestures there’ve been,
making the setting a little more calm
a little more circumspect
(not really changing the parameters of anything)
but smoothing order and a warm openness
onto difficult days
things are almost never black-and-white
but sometimes they’re neutral
Hummels on the Doorstep
no judgment on the unclaimed Hummels,
one disaster after another decreasing the importance
of the ceramic girl with the geese
and the boy reading,
demoted to the role of luxuries
(which they already were –
post-WWII knicknacks
celebrating not only
a rapidly disappearing pastoral past
but, also, the fact that
you didn’t expect disaster
to rattle him, her, or
any other china figurines,
no fiery bombs that day –
a luxurious certainty
that’s chipped and cracked now)
whether to know
two ways today I’m asked
if I want to know
what’s in the air we’re breathing
and the answer is
I don’t know
because we can’t stop bringing it into our bodies
and we aren’t the type to pick up and move
the numbers may tell us
what we don’t want to hear
but if we don’t know
at least we don’t know
Margaret says,
We’re doomed. And?
Sarah says,
Don’t give your worries swimming lessons.
I say,
When can I just breathe easy?
And, will my children ever?
not normal, not ok / unselfing
after months of being mostly fine
one at a time today
we admit we’re not ok
we cry and storm
and frankly lose our @#$%
over nothing
but it’s the nothing of
no normal –
no normal now
no normal as far as we can see into the calendar pages
we chose one not-normal year
but never bargained for two
if in August
someone had told us what was coming
what would we have chosen?
to revel in the last months of normal
(movies, restaurants, playdates, sleepovers, baseball, shopping, concerts, hugs, puppies, coffee, museums, galleries, drinks with friends, swimming pools, trampolines, lemonade stands, parades, 10ks…)
or to see the world
while it was open?
*
Iris invites us to unself
let go
look outside
accept
we are not in control
as it was in the beginning
is now
and ever shall be
world with tricks up its sleeves
and sometimes bouquets
our shared grief
in this lonely time of loss
each of us locked away
in our own sorrow
the future a grey haze
uncertainty dusting everything
we do or say like fine ash
the fear of dying alone
(our death or a beloved’s)
with no hand to hold
no last pressure between worlds
the one consolation is
our shared grief –
that you know a bit
of what I must say no to
without me opening my lips
for maybe the only time
our hearts share this unsaid knowing
that we would each gladly
take this away from the other
I want to splash warm red
and the smell of cinnamon
into your scene
let you remember
how spontaneous laughter feels
light the way forward for you
at least a few steps
