Güd wrtr

(in memory of Margery Thompson)

And now, on the brink of the first birthday
you are not with us,

rather than think about that, or your final
birthday barely two weeks before

you lifted off, surely, into the heaven
you imagined,

I stumble into your cheesecake recipe—
“more pie than cake,” you said—

then hunt down the photos of Rebecca
and me learning from you, the master,

the secrets of your late son’s favorite
cheesecake (honestly, all of our favorite),

four summers before you died—a favor
to me who wanted to make cheesecake

for my mom’s 90th birthday. And I did,
serving yours, along with three other

recipes I tried, to partygoers on a 110-
degree afternoon, walking pieces out

to people and urging them to eat fast
so the delicacy wouldn’t puddle on

their plates. Yours, of course, was
my mother’s favorite, creamy atop

its graham cracker crumb crust.
It was everyone’s favorite—

the clear pie plate littered only
with crumbs by the party’s end,

which was how you left us
after so many wonderful parties.

And no matter how much we
celebrate you in your absence,

no matter how much we trust that
your gentle spirit hovers around us all,

it’ll never taste the same.

(for Maxi, the moggy* at my house)

Dude, forgive me.
I missed your day
four days ago.

It’s not as if
every day isn’t
Cat Day

around here,
but when all cats
across the globe

are celebrated, and
your clueless person
missed it,

well, yipe. To you,
my mama’s moggy
who has made me

your human,
I thank your huge
feline self for

all the love,
all the purrs,
so much you.

Feather on a stick
time? OK, dude,
let’s play!

•••

*A moggy is a British slang term for a mixed-breed,
non-pedigreed house cat.

•••

Photo snagged from a Sacramento History Museum video
of printer Channey making this letterpress print on the museum’s
1852 Washington hand press. I love the daily videos like this one,
which can be seen on Facebook, of the History Museum’s printers
using the classic press to commemorate historic events.

(for Joan Stockbridge)

If one is waving, perhaps bobbing
its orange head in your direction,

whether you’re a native or exotic,
take it as a friendly greeting,

a botanical hello, especially on
the hottest days. They’re meant to thrive

when the sun blares, when their flowers
grow fullest, these resilient cups of gold joy.

They prompt us to smile in return,
remember that we are built to flourish

in arid conditions—like now—despite
obstacles, stronger than we think,

that we can withstand and sway,
that we will rise again.

Twenty little toesies—
10 crimson and 10 rosy pink
on lime green flops—

nicely pedi’d, calves massaged
by hands that remolded ours
into happy feet

always a fine way to celebrate
a belated birthday because
dates don’t matter to toesies

all spiffed up and ready to
literally step out on the town—
or at least to lunch—

yours’n’mine,
friend to friend.

•••

(with thanks to friend Laura Martin for the pedi and lunch)

(Ashland, Oregon)

Anxious to find a parking space
too close to the time of our final play,

I crept slowly up the hill by the park,
invoking the trusty parking fairy,

who must’ve been off preparing for
her night’s work onstage—

because it was a midsummer night,
and there was dreaming to be done.

No spot made itself available to
two playgoers. But twice I stopped

saying, “Oh, deer!” to briefly watch
at close range two troupes of females

nibbling grass, oblivious to cars and
people, secure in their momentary safety,

sensing that all would end well, that
those foolish mortals in their rolling

contraptions would do the foragers no
harm. And so, touched by that bit of magic,

I drove on.

And we have seen six marvelous ones
in four days—

we Came From Away to see Emma
finagle relationships, including,
unknowingly, hers,

were swept back to 2001 with
the plane people and their gracious
hosts in Gander,

saw a shrew tamed (and watched
her tame a husband, too),

were Cordially Invited to the End of the World
and wept watching it almost as much
as we laughed,

awoke from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
with perhaps the best rude mechanicals,
fairies and donkey we’ve ever seen,

and found ourselves drawn in by
the complexity of Yellow Face, only
to drive back to our temporary home
and learn that our host is an understudy
for the female lead.

We stood in her back yard under a smoky
night sky, marveling at it all, as we took
turns bending to pet Coconut, our actress
host’s cute white dog,

grateful for all these plays that are,
indeed, the wondrous things that
transport us to so many places
we would otherwise never, happily, go.

•••

With thanks to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival
for their amazing plays this season, along with our
gratitude to our generous Air B&B host Julie Oda
and her family.

(for Nikki)

We have tea’d in Guangzhou where
a young woman presented a carved box
with the gift of chrysanthemum tea,

where we watched little yellow flowers
bloom in hothot water poured
from a heavy bronze pot.

We have sky-high tea’d in Hong Kong
atop the 103rd floor of the Ritz Carlton,
and today overlooking an Oregon creek

at a sweet tea room with the words “love”
and “joy” in its name. Yummy triangle
sandwiches—of course, cucumber,

of course, deviled egg—along with
a scone and a crumpet for each
of us. And oh, the clotted cream

and lemon curd. All with two pots
of tea that two lovely women kept
filled with hot water as we two

talked and ate and remembered
other teas in many countries, including
this one, our own, in a state

north of our own. We are visitors
met with warmth and kindness.
engaging in the ritual of tea

without the pretension. We sip
welcome poured into a cup that
does not match its saucer, nor

the plate on which we place these
indulgences, a mish-mash like us,
each living soul a precious morsel

in this great melange of humankind.

•••

With thanks to Muna Nash and her staff at
Lovejoy’s Tea Room in Ashland, Oregon, whose
slogan is “the ritual of tea with the pretension.”

(Lithia Park, Ashland, Oregon)

Not until we rise after sitting
on a bench by the pond for
a good half hour talking,

as we do, about so many things
in our lives, does it strike me
that we have been reflecting

on the past while focusing on
the present reflections of
venerable trees in still water.

Looking closer, we see upside
down people we will never meet
on the opposite side of the pond.

And I wonder if they are in this
moment also contemplating their
mirrored selves—the people,

that is—the trees having no need
to do anything but stand tall,
offer their leafy parasols

to creatures seeking shelter
and shade on this hot day,
and simply be.

I boarded a plane with you,
nervous flyer, though you’d flown
across the world more times
than I ever will,

to go get the girl, deep in China,
who became your daughter,
waiting for the one she would
call Mama.

That 7-year-old in the too-small
wheelchair, the one you’d held
as a palsied infant in the orphanage,
not expected to live, but who did,

the girl with the infectious smile,
is a much bigger teen now, about
to start high school, rolls through
the world in a snazzier chair,

is good with numbers, even if she
can’t speak. She is, you and I agree,
a marvel, but so are you, my friend,
we two taking a much simpler trip

this week, driving north to an Oregon
town to see plays, your girl at home
with her beloved caregiver, each of you
having a bit of vacation before school

starts. You, too, the marvel. You, too,
with an equally winning smile,
related—as you are to her,
as we are to each other—

by far more than blood, these
slender threads of devotion stitching
you to her, her to you, both of you
to lucky, lucky me.

•••

(For Nikki and Annie)

The peach, sure, just looking at it
lined up with its sisters in a peachy
chorus line, makes us salivate.

But so the red hibiscus with its
opulent color is equally appetizing
to the eye,

both voluptuous creatures sending
come-hither vibes into the air
like sirens

trying to tempt a captain who has
ordered himself tied to the mast,
fearing he cannot resist.

We are drawn to beauty in all its
forms, our senses pulling us toward
what dazzles,

the enticing, the bewitching and
the simply charming. Go ahead.
Touch. Taste.

Let luscious seep into you and be
sated by it. Revel in it, for you know
well how fleeting it is.

Blossom today, gone tomorrow.
And as for that peach, you’re already
reaching for it,

mouth open, ready to take the first
bite.

•••

Thanks to Gayle and Amy for sharing the bounty of their peach harvest.