Valedictory

I saw a conflagration.
I saw how every animate thing might be a flame
and in the general fire find its place.
I dreamed that all of us are falling upward
toward a vast and strong embrace
in a region unimaginable, yet undeniably home
where our candles rise to meet the greatest light;
and I am glad to think of you falling so high
so far above me waving you goodbye
not wishing to ever stop this conversation but
comforted to see you rise
and keep on rising
just flying 
till your cherished, reborn glow is out of sight.

March 30 2011

Another Spring Time

One step shows the earth's begun to give again.
The poet taught us to distrust that yield
and yes, the season's one for suicides;
it even kills itself, or tries.
But something always rolls that rock away
again, and when we look inside,
trembling to think of losing our precious doubt
nothing's there, and we are left to decide only
how long we will hesitate 
before we turn to face
what waits for us outside.

March 28 2011

It May Take a Little While

It may take a little while.
The habit of you is in everything;
ivy in my walls,
and you know how hard that is to kill.
It's hard to tolerate the weight of things I no longer have to do.
You're always waiting for me in the other room;
and it isn't just a matter of throwing out your unused food.
It's also about walking past the spot
where I used to have to stop to stroke your face.
You just don't need that anymore;
and it wouldn't be so damnable
except that I still do.

March 27 2011

She's Been Throwing Snow

She's been throwing snow at us
all day long. It's the kind of behavior you'd expect
from an infant season, and speaking as a parent, really,
there isn't a lot you can do; it's hardwired at this point:
Newborn, she has no settled paths; they
just aren't there yet. This is an exercise in patience;
clean up the mess and don't be angry:
Soon enough you'll be wishing she
hadn't grown up quite so fast and moved away.

March 21 2011

You're Everywhere These Days

You're everywhere these days. I can't
turn the TV on without seeing your face,
or being reminded of your spectacular life as a dog.
How did you get into the sky?
The next time I go into the yard
I expect I will see you there,
looking out at me from under last year's leaves.

Last night, I dreamed I saw you charging around the yard
like a mad dog. The way you planted your feet 
like a bull, then ran, tongue out, ears wild,
like fourteen years ago; it was so good at the end
to see you clear the fence with ease. In my dream
I figured out how to get you back, but you were so
scratched up, I think now the best thing would have been,
and yes, still is, just to let you keep on running away
until you can't see me and I can't see you anymore.

March 18 2011

I Felt the Palest Yellow Glow

I felt the palest yellow glow
come in at evening when the sun pried off
the cloud lid from the sky
with its final exhalation
and while it lightened me
I also feared a change had come to you
silent
while I cleaned the dishes in the kitchen.
That is why I came to look at you
no food in my hands, 
just to see your liquid eyes
look back at me
again 
again 
again.

March 11 2011

Today My Wish for You

Today my wish for you is that
a warmer time will see you end.
Not in cold despair, but in a comforting sun
would I see you lie down at last,
feeling heat release the grasp of pain upon your bones
and small breeze stir your greying fur
and sleep, a friend, 
nuzzle close, sniff you softly,
and curl around you with a familiar dream
of open air, your owners,
and the happiness of the endless chase.

March 3 2011

At the End You May Find

Sorry this one's kind of a downer. It doesn't reflect any recent tragedy; it's just something I've been trying to write for a while.

At the end you may find
the path is longer than expected.
You delve the wood
and with each turn expect to see 
a termination: something final to untether you
from him or her with grace. But the way winds on,
and though that cord is also precious, 
more than you can bear to simply sever or unlace,
these old trees have held you both 
too long on a narrow trail,
no turning back, no stopping place,
and only God is limitless,
and He will not retrace.
It is not your fault if you secretly long
for a clearing or the sea to tell you
here you stop, no more to this race;
and when the end surprises you
as it may, in a hard and unsuspected space,
you will measure the depth of your loss and love
by the clangor of your solitude
and the bitter loneliness of freedom
burning on your face.

February 24 2010

First Earrings

Another minor milestone passed.
She clenched her teeth and saw it through.
You cried; you held your breath;
I gave you quarters in the mall
to turn your thoughts to plastic pigs
and bubblegum, which conquer all,
and then we stopped for cookies.

The shock is sharp, but fast.
For all of us, it lingers;
but this strong wisdom I have learned from her: 
Fear no future earrings, for in the aftermath,
though you are taken farther from your birth
and me, a person even more like you is born 
with greater grace, to walk a greater path.

February 24 2010

In a Dream of Family

In a dream of family made real
we passed the woods and streams reblanketed
beyond the windshield wall.
Slowly as we turned
the song rejoined us all
and the children in the back seat 
sang sweet hallelujah.

February 22 2011

After Last Christmas

That might have been the last time you believed
and if it was
about the only thing that I can say
through tears that you will never see I hope
is welcome 
to the life for which your life till now
was practice,
and may you find your new belief
sooner than I who had to wait
for you.

February 16 2011

It Is Possible to See

It is possible to see
in the sunlight on this yellow grass
a miniature of Spring.
The sight of sodden earth revives
an old anticipation.
Remembering Eliot and the date
we keep our expectations low,
but neither can nor will suppress
the thought that somehow sometime soon
something green may grow.

February 12 2010

The World Is Drawn on Paper

The world is drawn on paper;
things are the exception, not the rule.
Those few that remain are skeletal,
the hidden framework of the world revealed.
It is a flattened field in grey and black and white
stretched and speaking silent only of necessity.
Then from this second-story vantage point
I hear a silver bell redemption
see the clarity of its perfect note
filtered through the leafless trees across the street
carried swiftly on the crystal air past
the last few snowflakes made dimensional by
and dancing slowly down
the sudden yellow light from a sudden blinding sun.

February 4 2011

Straightening the Trees

We are straightening the trees
in a snowed-in wood.
It isn't hard to free
the burdened branches bowed:
A single touch will do
to let the needles leap.
But do they whisper thank you as they rise,
or would they sooner sleep?

January 29 2010

Summer Canned

Summer canned is winter, never doubt:
ardor must be eaten when it's picked;
abandon never lived inside a jar.

January 24 2010

Anniversary

We have made our home by a shifting shore
where tides and moons and seasons all revisit,
fractal nested, one inside another,
but every wave that washes leaves an altered strand
and every storm is different from the ones before.
Change in constancy, constancy in change:
Our lives turn on a spiral, not a ring,
and hard as it may be to see the difference,
every round we've made has found us farther up the spring.
You and I could walk this sand forever, 
always finding something new--and should;
which seems in some way fastened to the fact
that though we've walked so far, so long,
we still can somehow always see
where we began, and know that it is good.

January 21 2010

Your Four Old Limbs

In the complication of your four old limbs
you find sufficient challenge for an average day.
The simple art of rising's almost lost to you,
and stairs are flat impossible without my aid.
When we walk, I listen to your hesitance,
and we turn around, no matter where,
when you want home. This works for me:

Age is no detractor from a friendship;
friendship values friendship, not mobility.
Years add only comfort to your company;
I ask nothing of you but to be.

And I will take your snoring presence on the floor
as long as you can stay.

January 18 2011

Against

The snowstorm left
one side of that tree painted
white
against its black
against the darkened
rose
of the nighttime clouds pushing
close
against the houses
as I let the dog in 
black
against the white
and lock the door
warm
against the night.

January 14 2011

Solo Crow

Solo 
crow so low
lights on the seawall
dances down to the sand.
His black makes him a harbinger
but he is surely caught up in this cold
with all of us. At least his black is definite
against all this weathered ambiguity,
but when the white strikes out the world tonight,
guaranteed, he'll be gone 
like all the rest.

January 14 2011

How Could I Possibly Not Take Your Hand

How could I possibly not take your hand
when you placed it in mine at supper?
You should have been eating but
your small still-perfect fingers were
so cool in mine
a casual gift from thoughtless youth;
you must have wondered 
at my ancient wonder because
you could not see the place your fingers touched
inside me.

January 6 2011

Renewal

She thought it might be a library
because the banner by the entrance said renew.
I corrected her mistake and she said oh
like cleaning whiteboards at school
or showering
or making your first penance
and I said yes
you are exactly right
and as we left the church behind
I put my arm around her shoulder
to hug her wisdom to me
and also was renewed.

December 31 2010

Storm After Christmas

From day to night the lights are lit
along this unpaved road
on which the crow is walking
where the snowplows bit,
and where the dog is dallying
with scents that winter locked up 
in its bitter storm.

After celebration came emergency
revising all our plans for season's joy.
So much was taken, 
barely given,
we all were lost with it,
and for the best of reasons
once more we went shopping.

Slowly, slowly comes the thaw:
The little spring they forecast.
Soon a while the dog may taste 
again those odors, and the sea
give back what it has stolen.
The winter's long before us
and the cold will come again,
but certain longer light will show
at least there is a way.

December 29 2010

Untitled 12/23/2010

It is the weariness of a year
near its end that sighs inside me. 
I can feel the weight of all its days
and the fractious fever of those final few
that pushed me to this stopping place:
here,
where silence sits beside me,
waiting like a faithful, lifelong friend.
And we will rest together,
expectant for the end,
saying nothing to each other 
of the hope that we still harbor,
secret in our hearts,
that we will see the advent once again
from darkness
of the miracle of joy.

December 23 2010

They Are Two So Beautiful

They are two so beautiful
who should say that there is more
ever to be wished than this
that I and they and she and he
remain, together in this place
till time brings round its changes
and that when it does
our hands will still be clasped
and hearts will still be one?

December 18 2010

Zeno, Farewell

A single hammer stroke is to a finished house
as we are to the stars appearing nightly.
Zeno said you can't get there from here
but daily we defy him. We finish walks,
step and step, though each one is impossible.
We do our deeds, from zero to completion,
though failure is our starting point
and ignorance our guide. Again, again, these people
continue to surprise; again,
again we find ourselves
poised to overstride infinity.

December 17 2010