Güd wrtr

Four months ago the arborist knocked on my door,
here to eyeball the long locks of foliage out back,

especially the leafy growth swaddling the trapeze-like
lines swooping from tall electric poles to house.

He had recommendations—which I seconded—
adding that tree trimmers would come along later.

All summer I’ve been keeping an eye out for
the saw-bearing tree guys to show, and today,

as I arrived home mid-afternoon, there they
were, tackling the overgrowth next door

before getting to mine. And though I’ve seen
this high-wire act before—mostly done nimbly

from the ground with a long-armed saw—
today it occurred to me what delicate pruners

these professionals are. Sure, one chain sawed
a large volunteer fig down to the dirt,

but Marcos also stood on the lawn looking up
at power lines and tree lines, deftly

removing a section of branch here, a lower
limb there, studying it like a painter

considering a canvas. Which he is, clearly,
working six days a week with his crew

over the past four months to nip and tuck
what needs trimming before the rains come.

And, like any good florist—not to mention
barbers—after Marcos and crew finished tidying,

everything looks fresher, brighter, lighter,
the trees whispering among themselves

in the late afternoon Delta breeze, a bit
bouncier after their long-overdue haircut.

I don’t know that the Buddha
ever said to his followers,

Go make a garden and then sit
amid the greenery, preferably

in warm afternoon sun, but
there he is in mine anyway,

looking as if he belongs there,
his beatific smile mellowing

out all the plants, not to mention
me. And even though it’s

nowhere near morning, I do
a few standing sun salutes

because I can, feeling all
kinds of lovingkindness,

because though it’s truly fall,
it feels like gentle summer.

And like the squirrels planting
peanuts in the begonia pots

on the deck, I’m storing up
warmth for winter,

ready to unearth it when
the cold and wet arrive,

reminding me to be grateful
for what comes then, too.

As the birds sing around sunset these days,
“It’s a marvelous night for a moondance,”

which I do, bopping while wheeling cans
to curb as this harvest moon approaches

her most pregnant point, preparing
to spit stars into the night—as young me

envisioned her. The moon has always
felt female, a girl who likes her bling.

currently keeping company with
ringed Saturn seemingly nearby—

at least from our limited perspective.
In her fullness, she peaks this month

in Aries, a time of vivid dreams, the veil
thinning between there and here.

So perhaps it is she in her golden orb
finery who asks us earthlings,

“Can I just have one more moondance
with you, my love?”

How can we do anything but say yes
and dance under her glorious light?

•••

(Lyrics from Van Morrison’s “Moondance,” 1970)

Kili will take your face off for arugula—
or at least your fingers—her people
warned when I offered, in their absence,
to drop by in between meals to offer
her favorite leafy green treat.

This small black-and-white kitty
with the pooched-out bottom lip
as if she’s in a perennial pout
was actually quite polite
as I presented part of a leaf,

delicately nibbling what
to her is clearly a delicacy.
“I’m not a fan,” I told her,
“so don’t worry that
I’ll steal it from you.”

And Kili watched calmly
until my hands emptied,
then sat on the floor near me,
sniffing my shoes, not
seeming to mind my
un-arugula’d self.

Which is how I knew
that I’d made a new BFF—
best feline friend—
a situation that gives both
of us girls the happies.

•••

(for Kilihuna and her people, Laura Martin and Chris Musci,
in memory of their beloved Hapa kitty)

(In honor, a day late, of National Punctuation Day, Sept. 24)

It is, by its very nature, a possessive little mark,
one that sidles up to an unsuspecting letter

and puts its curvy little arm around it,
not unlike a boy in a movie theater ages ago,

pretending to yawn, extending his arm,
ending up (how’d that happen?) across

the back of his date’s seat. Apostrophes,
the old flirts, wink. They need to be needed,

tied to another to indicate “belonging to,”
though they don’t ask—just velcro themselves

to the nearest letter, often joining two words
that would otherwise stand apart.

It’s a cuddler, come to think of it, a cat looking
for a lap, a pat, a spot to put its soft self,

wanting to be wanted, an I’m-here-for-you
bit of punctuation just waiting in the wings.

(Sacramento, California, late September)

Though her roses still have blossoms,
many look weary, as are we

who have weathered with her the loss
of her dearest friend in May,

she shouldering most of the aftermath,
though she will never take credit for that.

But on an unseasonably warm Wednesday
she hosts a garden luncheon to thank

some of the people who came to help.
We don’t know anyone at the table but her,

though we’ve often been guests
of the two women who’ve been part

of our lives for more than four decades.
Now we are finally properly introduced

to some of their nearest and dearest
who, like us, rallied round in ways

we think of as small. But there is
no small after a loss so huge,

our beloved dead friend might say,
she so grateful in her final days.

And just before we leave, I walk the slate
path strewn with petals from Leilani’s roses,

some giving way after giving their all.
I’m surprised, as always this time of year,

by how many are holding up well,
a few new buds, pearly pink, life life-ing.

Just like our dearly departed,
one who so embodied liveliness,

still blooming all around us.

•••

(For Leilani Hu Yang in memory of Patricia Beach Smith,
with love from Jan and Dick)

I wear the socks as if their message
will sink into my calves and ooze
its way to my lungs, which can forget

to breathe when I’m counting measures
of rest in my head, trying not to move
my lips—a rookie move.

But I am a rookie again in band, even
with one semester under my belt.
Still a beginner. Forever operating

with beginner’s mind, with so much
to learn. And now, on the night of this
semester’s first performance in the college

library, as audience members arrive,
I find myself looking for the ones
I cannot see, but whom I suspect

are nonetheless here. They would not
miss a concert. They never did. For years
I took for granted that the ones who

made us would show up when we played.
It never occurred to me that someday
that would not be the case.

And as I played my bells parts, blending
with my bandmates’ notes wafting
into the air, I remembered to breathe,

trusting that the music we made
was reaching the ears of those present
and those hovering around the edges,

now the music and the breath,
in the now and in the forever.
Amene.

•••

(for Donna, who came in person,
and for Mom and Dad, who came in spirit)

A woman online wrote about her dog,
but it strikes me that Chance, that old trickster,

is our lifelong dance partner, from our
smallest selves wiggling to music as toddlers

to our oldest incarnations learning to maneuver
with a cane, looking down as we walk

instead of up at the sky as we have long loved
to do. We dance with Chance every chance

we get, hoping that we don’t fall, that an
opportunity will arise that lands in our favor,

that by happenstance we might find
ourselves, as this woman did: as summer

officially gives way to autumn on a favorite
beach, her dog’s paws impressing damp

sand, recording each step of his ecstatic,
bounding, soon-to-be-washed-away path.

May all our dances with Chance be like that:
ones of pure, tail-wagging joy.

•••

(for Amrita Skye Blaine)

(with thanks to Crystal Ellison and Chance
for the inspiration)

(Passiflora incarnata)

Listen: All the flowers
you’d hoped to see on your
favorite tropical island

have likely been blown
to smithereens by a hurricane,
and now is not the time

to make a nuisance of
yourself as a visitor.
But honey, take a gander

at the passion flowers
blooming their fool heads
off on the Garden Goddess’s

trellis on the corner, their
purple blooms unfolded like
an open palm, beckoning,

a mini helicopter pad
in the center, tiny yellow
pollen sacs hovering over.

And, as you stand there,
admiring, sure enough, a
small butterfly flits in

for a landing. Just a touch
and go on this blossom
that lasts maybe a day.

Yes, beauty is, indeed,
fleeting, but look at that
wavy fringe over those

lavender petals. Right
here on your block, honey—
so much loveliness,

like a gift you forgot
to open, presenting itself
when you need it most.

•••

(With appreciation for Garden Goddess Katie O’Rourke)

I know it’s silly to get all squishy about
electric red tomatoes hanging like tiny

festive lanterns from the vines, but
look at ’em glowing as if lit from within,

which they might well be. And now,
in late September, nearing what has to be

the end of their season, I still get such
a wallop of joy, knowing that they simply are,

that I find it difficult to pluck them from
their birthplace. But barely touching

one, inhaling its earthy, herbal musk,
feeling it plunk into my hand like the gift

that it is, sends me soaring, as if that
cute boy on the bus had looked my way

and smiled—really smiled—at me.
How nice to be chosen. How my fingers

curl around that tasty token, soon
to nourish the likes of me,

as love has done again and again,
even when I wasn’t paying attention.