Grow-how

1.
what leafing follows
like a river from your roots?
were you made (inevitable,
complete) or do you knit yourself
from the inside out, glorious
short-flowered, incandescent
with doubt?

2.
what light-shine sun into muddled heart?
how to grow, how to know, where to direct
this heat and soul, your doubt-seed
flowered into hard, black fruit
bitter and somehow
appealing

I wanted to do something a little different for this year’s National Poetry Month, so I made myself a journal called Yes Words to doodle some inspiration.

march pond

death of death, softened
air; reeds, grasses a graveyard
of old sculpture snow-huddled
in slow collapse—

blue-sky water glitters
blackbirds trill and trill

Sun in March

curled up with wind
to shake the house-walls
the muse never roars
but trees bend over
branches break and fly

february garden

1.
finally the birds
invite me to their party
I bring sunflower
seeds found in bits and tatters
to scatter singing like thanks

2.
these found me wanting
green things curled beneath old leaves
still light-ly dozing

february pond, 3

a still life in geese
on the pale stubble field
necks arched
we are all for the moment
motionless, stunned by sun

february pond, 2

the man—white hair, red jacket—
in golf cart gleefully sweeping
the hillside, full speed
(full gaggle, the birds lift
from grass and sun-sparked water
hang just overhead, then wheel
away into the distance, raucous
indignant)
now driving my direction
he asks if I want some geese

*

still, I consider the pond’s ruffled surface
while the wind-fluffed sparrow, shrub-top
eyes me with suspicion

Sun in February

it’s the light
flooding everything—
kind yet defiant, treestrong—
pouring into blue, lording over
cold, even now-death, tatters
of overwintering—
everything! from here
basking in glassview
our hothouse growing
what can withstand
(everything!)—fed liquid light
earthtaste of warmth
and wood, green always
within and again always
laughing

I had just drafted this poem when I learned of the death, much too young, of one of my husband’s colleagues. It re-framed this poem, and this sunny day, for me. Wishing you so much kind yet defiant sun, my dear readers and friends.

february pond

a fine day to leave the path
feet crunching wheat-pale turf—
across the glass-hard pond

(surface bliss-blue, willow gold)
this subdued troop of geese
treks on, south and south: sunward

all winter wanting

to do something color-splashed
important as love, a layered thing
to be peeled and savored, sparkling

within, remembered like first spring sun
on your skin, green finger-strong snapping
of marigold heads, spilled apart and all

feathered seeds teased out, cast on
to wind or soil or sand

Winter Gifts

yet we can seem spendthrift
in any season scattering care
like birdseed on the ground, wet snow
no more weight on tree-shoulders
than skies gray or gold or blue—
and remember what you’ve done for me
shoring up my heart, careful
packing and piling
these paths through snow
with cold fingers rewiring
the whole house to sun-blaze
pouring joy through windows
and doors spilling love into the night