Raised on books I dreamed
of hawking and now I want
this raven, to call it
strong to my wrist
with such a longing I once had
to hold a child in my arms
But its magnificence
that black eye black
beak the breadth of it
vast wings open and fold
pause, a thoughtful look
through the glass, me
Use all as a tool, dear, to build a shelter for
your mind, and others in need. —Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
The tools are here: room of one’s own
unprecious time, colored pencils, light
from the window, yarn called pumpkin and
yarn called spice, even butterscotch and cotton
cord, beads, stamps, wire, awl and bone
folder, oodles of thread, necessary
candle, cup of tea, smell of sweet basil
hung to dry and
here I find myself
sitting I wonder
what to make of it all
Chasing the sun today—fifty miles
and five thousand feet down
into the valley for the idea
of ten degrees of warmth—
we hurry to pack lunch as
the weather app says
clouds will come
by mid-afternoon
In the event, as we picnic
and walk we shed layers,
search for a hint of shade,
our winter-tuned skin tenderest
on the backs of necks, feeling a lack
of hat. Back home, the breeze
is too cold and I fold
up the patio chairs
a step away from the graywhite world
off the cliff and to what warm breath
what greengold chasm
what impossible delight
because in this closing of the year
i find another narrow door
to slip through—somelight
like you came into the world
all pent-up fuss and bother
more than true for once desire
to escape without admitting it—
sometimes
proclaiming it—
now these boxes and ribbons
become remembrance, smoothing over, wrapping up
and making pretty
ordinary, how mothers and daughters fit together,
spool apart
we’re down to icy slush, footstep-shaped
margins of grass or sodden islands
sudden lakes, squished plastic bags
sidewalk-washed downstream
the dripping we heard overnight a dream-
breath of spring, sheets too warm
the same winter birds but heard
with the door cracked
how things get ugly before getting better
like a healing bruise, the heart
churns, chugs, pumps again and
in winter’s dreg-end we sweep away
the debris
not the smell of summer but a memory
earth, sun, sweat
or skin or breath, all of it
fading. where a heart stirs yet
beneath these layers of snow
tired of the season’s responsibility
our nerves, words, glances dry-
cracked as winter knuckles
those leaves that still cling, nearly
unrecognizable to our warmer selves
is snow on ice on ice on snow
and we know this is metaphor
also, this floundering through drifts
and bleak shivering, a slip and a fall
juncos flit and chickadees
never give up their song, the warning note
for all these branches bent under
their own frozen weight, summer’s broken stems
brittle and glazed
how far down do we hold our love’s roots, the seeds
and is this the winter
that kills them
Maybe you shouldn’t have looked in here, after so many weeks
or months? to find your friends talking about God knows and eight or nine expired poetry challenges, that feeling
like skipping church for a year, then sitting in the town chapel singing Christmas carols with strangers—
didn’t you want to cry? and didn’t you stop yourself, a disciplined no? but listen, I’m telling you
yes: find what’s worth saving, a fresh heart beneath all that must
A long-lined acrostic dedicated to the long-neglected crew at Yeah Write.
May you be warm and have light, candle-
burning and yet
may you be at peace
in the curling dark
listening to stillness but
may you hear the song!
the skies and the earth and every encounter
the rhythms of ice and wind
may they be a sign to you
to hold hope in your heart
the rise and soar
the resolution
Graceful Press Poetry 