an october poem note

October 14, 10:12 PM

I'm sitting here listening to Mary Oliver read her poem through the speakers in this little silver box, and five words in, there you are. You didn't write poems. At least we didn't find any among the newspaper articles on how to care for violets and the grocery lists and shells and strands of your hair still threaded through the prickly pink velcro rollers. Yet each morning, you took the hand of your poet self when you walked around your yard curiously unearthing the new.

march 22

as we stood below blue in the crisp air, she handed them to me one at a time. we talked about how i used to do the same thing with my grandmother. when we went inside, i put them in the tiniest vase i could find that rests on the windowsill above the sink.

later, as i looked at them while making a cup of tea, i kept thinking about how living fills the cracks missing creates.

the swirling thoughts.

 

i want to write about how the birds sing even when it rains. i want to invite you in so you can know in an instant and let go of the words and confusion. i want to rest my mind, my heart, until the wind is all that i hear. i want to step inside and see. i want to open up. i want to breathe you inside me until you fill the space. i want to push back until i am cocooned in truth. i want to fill in the cracks with life. i want to sway, eyes closed, until the end. i want to live it. i want to tiptoe into the tulip petals. i want to bring you hope to wear around your heart. i want to listen. i want to grow roots until the fear is gone. i want to remember each word. i want to remember it softly.

this is hope; this is love

my mother's hands; a waiting soft place to land, grow

with each movement

you whisper

your teachings

i surround you

with hope

and know

you are love

(early morning sleepy thoughts on this love thursday)

(moving pictures) postcard from chicago (august 9, 2009)

{front}

{back}

breathe in
breathe out

postcard from chicago (august 8, 2009)

(front)
Windows tiled for miles seen through sunbeamed air you could ring out over the sink.

(back)
unexpected missing
(heart open)
wishing
i knew how
(to tell you)

i just keep going.

postcard from michigan (august 6, 2009)

{front}

{back}

you can look behind you

and own what you see

(all of it)

especially when you find your own reflection

postcard from michigan (august 4, 2009)

{front}
a stack of dusty, tattered-edged rescued postcards wrapped with string that encases whispered missings of long ago...

{back}
a moment to breathe in the quiet
a decision to dance in your life
a belief in you
a bouquet of hope
a smile reflected
a heart open to the world

this is what i wish for you.