January

Sunniest day in January

And the snowdrops already blooming.

Grief comes despite the weather,

despite my daughter’s first wobbly steps, 

her two teeth grin and gasp laugh.

Sadness soaks in like a grease 

stain, doesn’t scrub. Despite my 

perfect body and good hair, 

the kind eyes of my husband. 

Hurt stirs in my gut like a stomach flu,

awakens with the neighbor’s 

midnight firecracker, colors the sky 

orange for a moment, then black.

In the morning, here it is like a

newborn, my grief wet and curled 

on my chest, despite the Towhee 

calling outside my window, 

fooled into thinking it is spring. 

After a dry spell, finally the rain

At breakfast today

In late fall, the yard appears stripped

of color until the hummingbird’s

scarlet throat catches the just-right

light of morning.

We breakfast together now and again.

I with my ceramic mug, she with

her plastic petals. Yesterday she found

the last passion flower on the vine

and spent some time in the rafters.

Below us, the discarded leaves of the

apple tree spend the day softening

only to freeze again overnight.

And I am reminded of the futility 

in trying to forget.

Only the Anna’s can hang on to nothing

at all—the figure eight of her wings

propelling her backward and forward,

her seed-sized heart beating laps

around mine. 

At breakfast today, she gives:

I remember you again.  

Full Circle

There hadn’t been wolves in the valley meadow

for decades, but lately signs: scat on the driveway

to the grandfather cabin, the mauled hoof of a deer,

tufts of grey fur in the dry grass. Of course I wanted

to see. Always the yearning. It doesn’t heed.

Often it takes years for one desire to come full

circle. Take for instance the kiss in the meadow,

when the grass bent down before our backs

just as the sun began to sink behind the hills—

and I discovered I no longer wanted what I finally had.

How do we keep anything sacred? As we pulled

into the drive, the wolf pups scattered in every

direction, each a different shade of grey or brown

against the golden meadow. Later, the mother

came across the field as if blind to us.

I too don’t see everything in front of me for

what it is. Only since I left have I thought

of  you a million times. When our eyes met,

she froze in fear, then trotted off down the creek.

All night she howled for her pups.

I don’t sleep because I did that to her. I lay awake

and think: maybe I can love more. Maybe I can

be better in a multitude of ways.

Mornings

After the initial shock of the alarm,

the body’s rustling groan,

it’s the ritual of morning that I love:

the lather of soap,

the rinse of hot water,

the smear of mascara.

I love the sound of water just

beginning to boil, and the precision

in preparing coffee: three scoops, 

pour, four minutes, press.

Five minutes to cool before

the first bitter taste on my tongue.

But most of all, the dependability

of morning: it always comes.

I step outside and the air welcomes

me with relief. Another day.

Another chance to get it right.

last day of september poem

The lucidity of rain

And now the rains have come.

Every time we step outside,

the sky sobs.

Walking from the restaurant to the car,

rain spills down your jacket

and into the pockets of your jeans.

And I, carrying a sensitivity especially sharp
after the second glass of wine,

feel envious of the lucidity of rain.

How clever, the unruliness of this world.

For hours after you leave, your pockets

will remain damp, but not soiled.

A way to hold on

only water knows. 

for C

at night, with you

I grow another set of legs.

Arms. A second pair of lungs.

Larger, I can do anything better.

My new heart—it pulses

against an old shoulder blade,

telling last hurt something

spectacular, like:

How do I keep you.

Morning brings several

amputations. Whose hands

am I left with? Mine or yours?