Poetry

There seems to be little escape,
the slowly advancing disaster
inching ever closer.
Lists of numbers and names
gain momentum in the daily news,
becoming familiar,
tugging heart strings in ways
foreign and acute.
Days march forward,
frogs returning to ponds,
birdsong greeting an ever
earlier sunrise.
Summer seemed to hold promise,
yet this, too, has become more
nebulous and fragile.
To see your face is lovely,
to feel your touch would
be healing.

It didn’t take long
for things to slide.
Faced with losses 
that are measurable,
we refuse to see
gains that are not.
Locked into our rut
of electronic living,
the refuge offered by
bird calls and
the contrast of 
warm sun and
cold air is overlooked.
I close my eyes to daydream
my summer garden,
still frozen in the dark
and saturated soil.
This is time well spent,
immeasurable, fleeting
and essential.

Many years have passed
since I last saw you.
Though we haVe almost never spoken,
and you do not know me,
you smile and meet my eyes
as you come through the door.
Sitting beside me,
you touch my arm,
lingering.
We talk a long time,
trying to share who we are and
where we have been.
I wake to my beautiful,
real life,
and wonder if you 
ever dream
about me.

It starts as a rustling
in a far away place,
a gathering of wind,
dark clouds shrinking
the horizon. 
We live our normal lives,
harboring minute danger
in the smallest kindness.
Soon we are in the midst
of the storm together,
a surreal eroding of 
a fabric woven of
culture and hierarchy.
Everything is flattened,
changed by an enemy unseen.
Rising with the sun is
resilient connection,
physical distance merely
an inconvenience to caring.
We shelter with a sense of place,
waiting like Spring.

It is an audible sigh,
collective and relished,
a dripping and gurgling
shared through the woods
 like laughter.
The grip of cold
has loosened,
no longer constantly
threatening,
but intermittent,
chased and on the run.
Hold your face to the
sunlight,
climbing into the 
sky well over the horizon,
and laugh with the 
woods.

Winter has settled in,
deep snow marking the
divide separating
predator and prey.
Sheltered from bitter wind,
thinly marked trails
through woods are
flecked with blood.
Here a little,
further on a little more.
I close my eyes to imagine
the scene.
Was there a last minute escape,
one more chance at life?
A coin with two sides,
one will flourish and the other
become a ghost.
When does remembering become
imagining? 
We lose our grasp of
how things were,
and live with
the perfection of 
wishing.

It is an angst
that feels familiar,
in an old sort of way,
though the onset
is new.
Born of patterns
familiar and rutted,
investment of self
and economies of intellect
over so many years,
they all run together.
Your piece of the puzzle
will be filled by 
another whose pliable edges
are shaped and honed
so the gears seldom grind
and the machine moves forward.
And so tomorrow you are
tasked with finding yourself
without losing yourself.
How to do this
no one knows.

It is a good thing,
women wearing pants.
To ride astride racing horses,
rather than aside,
perched as if you
don’t really belong.
Imagine Norma Jean,
an aged, confident
retired physicist,
that sidewalk grate
Wafting stale air 
Up pants rather than pleats.
Wading through tall grass
amidst falling leaves,
lugged boots gathering mud,
my pants sweepIng away burrs
and scratches,
I am bolder because of
pants. 
Pants wipe hands,
give camouflage in 
flight,
and equalize even
nasty snowball fights.
Put on your big girl pants,
wander into the world
and be somebody to
reckon with.