The lake waits all night for me. Fettered boats rock and drift gently, answering unseen currents. Tadpoles, soft black bodies like commas, wriggle along the honeycombed shallows, awaiting their metamorphosis. As morning ages wind wrinkles the lake’s skin, but as I slip into blue its fingers are all satin. You have to understand: poetry
How well-crafted is the daffodil how like a poem growing from one tight-fisted sphere requiring nurture from deep surroundings shyly the leaves emerge, flourish in tender green, the slender stalk in triumph lifts the full-blown blossom, a bright signal to the world, the beauty of life.
Ghosts of Winters Past I remember the Christmas when I awoke to see a shiny new toboggan standing tall beside the tree and winter breaks spent sliding down a frozen hill where neighborhood kids could all be found rosy cheeks and tingling toes under sunny skies at ten degrees below boots trudging and crunching through
Lights shining in the distance, Leading people to dance, Eating delicious food, Along with friends and family, People praying to god, Surrounded by bright colors, Arrays of flowers, Gifts are given, Fireworks illuminate the sky, The feeling of happiness, Spreads through people, Diwali is here.
Easter morning you pull on black hoodie, force calloused feet into red Reebocks, deny three times you’re in a rush, blow off brunch. No leg of lamb for this eighteen-year-old. I slip an oversized card into my purse. Easter, after all, is about hope. I envision you sauntering past hostess stand, late, table for four,
instead of sorrow, i will mark the day with ceremony, from the moment of waking to the feel of my body’s curl under darkening covers i will breathe ritual, so that even coffee’s steam will recognize its incense, offer grounding, so that even work will fall into quiet rhythm. instead of tears i will laugh
the moments in between time as i become two my midwife tells me this is transition but words don’t happen in the moments of birthing moments don’t happen time is but a marker on my midwife’s watch 60 seconds 10 centimetres heart rate. contraction. push. time doesn’t happen in birthing. birthing happens outside outside and
roots , flesh and grain offered up as sacrifice by ritual of fire upon white hot coals aromatic with mysterious unguents the high priest turns and gathers them with implements of sacred wood and iron prepares them with anointments of secret herbs and lotions with eyes and hands by ancient signs examines them announcing at
I brush my teeth like there’s god in it, split my medications into morning & evening prayers. Offer a word for the ambulance drivers, another for the small squirrels & lizards that they might outrun the dog. I am learning to make & hold eye contact. To practice asking people what do you mean by
