Places You Might Find a Poem

Where can a poem reside?

Behind the moon that
Rises each night outside
Your bedroom window.

Around the conversations
Of strangers you half-hear
While waiting in line.

Above the Ferris wheel
Where you took your boys
When they were babies.

Beneath a river's surface
filled with salmon,
Shimmering in the sun.

Through the thick
Of your suffering,
Silent and loud.

By the side of your big dog
Who still inches toward your lap
When she thinks you're not looking.

In the air over your head,
Waiting for you to catch them
With your open-hearted hands.

What I Didn't See At First

I thought it was an eagle at first--
White-headed, brown-bodied,
Imperial and large--
As it dropped from the sky
And landed on my neighbor's driveway.

But then it flapped and flopped,
hopped like a too-tall boy
In a too-small suit, nervous,
At his first junior high school dance.
Awkward. Inelegant. Ridiculous.

Disappointed, I walked away
Until it occurred to me--
When was the last time I saw
A duck on my neighbor's driveway?
But when I turned back, ready to marvel,
It was already gone.

Present

A vanilla creamsicle boy--
That's what Hannah calls
Her new baby, Sam,
Who is as blond and fair
As a sandy beach beneath
A sweet summer sky.

I think about Hannah's mother,
Becky, who loved everything
About a baby--
The soft skin, the soft hair,
The soft breath, the soft noises.
I think about how I wish
Becky were here right now
With Hannah and Sam and me,
Holding all that softness
In the welcoming yield
Of her curving arms.

Becky would have fallen
Complete and whole
As the moon is full
Into this very moment
Because that's how Becky lived.
Present.

So.
I honor the memory of my dearest
Friend by letting her go
And letting myself be only here--
Here in this moment,
Here in this room,
Here with Hannah and Sam,
Her creamsicle boy.

A Lullaby for the Garden Being Put to Bed for the Winter

To the anemones gone with last week's frost,
But until that a sea of wings
Delicate and pink . . .
The leaves fall and the leaves sing,
Sleep sweet, sleep sweet,
We'll see you come spring.

To the asters lolling across the sidewalk,
Still frilly enough to
Cut for a vase . . .
The leaves fall and the leaves sing,
Sleep sweet, sleep sweet,
We'll see you come spring.

To the rosebuds still closed
as tight as tiny fists
On a fistful of thorns . . .
The leaves fall and the leaves sing,
Sleep sweet, sleep sweet,
We'll see you come spring.

Grandmother

My grandmother used to stand in our kitchen,
Smoothing her hand over a hip
Curved like a crescent moon,
Saying, "Sweets aren't a problem for me,
But don't make me give up my bread."
Then she'd butter a slice of sourdough
My father brought home from San Francisco
And eat it like a queen nibbling on crumpets.
I'm grateful she still visits me in a poem.

Here's What Writers Don't Tell You

Writers will tell you that
Writing is hard.
Because it is.
E. B. White said his wife,
Katharine, used to commit
A line to paper,
Then take out a gun
And shoot it dead.
That sounds about right.

What writers forget to mention
Is that we're crows at heart,
Scrabbling for the right word
Through your Grandmother's
Costume jewelry word box,
And when (finally) we find it--
Ooooo! Shiny!--
JOY!

To the Cat Who Followed Us Home This Morning

Maybe you slipped out unnoticed
When your teenage boy
Slipped out unnoticed, too.
Is it possible that, like him,
You wanted a taste of living beyond
Call of Duty and the living room couch?

Or maybe you had a human family
That moved and couldn't take you with
Them to that new unfriendly apartment
Where pets aren't allowed.

Or maybe that human family was the kind
Of family that would drive you
Someplace else and turn you
Loose with the promise that someone nice
Would find you and give you a good home
With a warm blanket and a bowl of cream.

Or maybe your owner was an elderly woman,
Fond of cats, but too ill to care for herself,
Let alone you, although, it must be said,
That cats are good at taking care of themselves.

Or maybe you have always
Lived on streets your entire life,
First taken care of by a ferrel mother
Who fed and groomed you to the best of
Her ability until she said, Enough.
Take care of you now--
I have myself to worry about.

Or maybe there's a little girl somewhere
With gold and purple glitter pens,
Making posters and offering a reward
For your safe return while her mother,
Biting her lip, knows full well
that this little girl may never see you again.

Yes. It's quite clear to me now.
A cat didn't follow me home.
But stories did.