Güd wrtr

Not only the planet, ravaged as it is
by humanity since humans first
stalked the joint like they owned it,
lording their two-footedness
over all others,

but also the ubiquitous five-and-dimes
vanished in the waning moments
of the last century, birds that used to
reliably sing the day anew, along with
your favorite mom-and-pop café and
the ice cream shop on the corner.

And, of course, us.

But not today, my monkey mind jabs at me.
Not today. We may be fiddling, the planet
literally burning in places where wildfire
once seemed as remote as the stars,

but we respond as our neighbors flee
the flames. We offer water and shelter,
those of us who are, for the moment, safe.
Or who feel safe in this moment. In the next,
I might be the one fleeing drought or flood,
coming to you, fellow human, both of us
unwittingly part of the cabal that
engineered this extinction.

But now—right now—I reach my open hand
in your direction. You take it, unclear about
who is helping whom, who is saving whom.
Or for how long.

What matters is that we did. We tried.
We are for however long we have.

I looked it up: 33% to 42% of people
give nicknames to their cars, with
40% of younger drivers doing so.

We Boomers not so much. Except
that I have three close female friends
in my age group who’ve named their

rides—all quite cleverly. These are
the people who are likely to say,
when they learn that I have

a new car, “What’s her name?”
While I’m all for the gender choice,
shouldn’t cars be nongendered,

especially in this day and age?
Apparently, about 55% of drivers
personify their cars as female.

And nearly 73% of drivers who name
their cars say they feel a stronger
emotional bond with their vehicle.

Listen: I find it hard to name pets.
I’ve had cats and dogs for months before
they let me know their names.

But when the photographer in my life
posed the new car and me under
the deep rosy crape myrtle,

I thought, “Maybe she’s Myrtle,”
which surprised me. We call the new
crape myrtle in front of his house

Myrtle. Would that confuse the tree,
to have another Myrtle parked near it?
And such an old-fashioned name—

right up there with Edna, Bertha,
Florence and Mabel. She’s such
a sporty car—shouldn’t she have

a racier name? Doesn’t matter.
I’m a Boomer who has not named
her cars, even the ones I most loved.

But maybe it’s time to turn over a new
leaf, Myrtle. Maybe you’re just the kick
in the pants this old gal needs as you

and I drive together, taking the bumpy
with the smooth, seeing just how far
we’ll go (sing it with me, baby)

on this long and winding road.

•••

Statistics from a survey by the GM Buy Power Card
as reported by CBS news in 2018.

We are all ancestors in training.
—Francis Weller

Whaddya mean, you didn’t know there was a class?
The whole freepin’ thing’s a class, for heaven’s sake.

And we do mean “for heaven’s sake.” That’s why you’re here.
On Earth. In a body. You’re an ancestor in training.

You’ve been studying your whole life. Learning to ride
a bike? Falling off and getting back up? Major lesson.

Your best friend’s dog dies? Advanced class in compassion.
Your dog dies? The one you love doesn’t love you?

The ones you love most die? Heartbreak and tears,
grief and loss—graduate level stuff, at any age.

The hardest of the hard. That’s why there’s so much of it.
Ample opportunity to love much. Practice love and more love.

Along the way—if you do this well—you become a teacher,
then graduate to wise elder. Not everyone gets there,

but we see potential in you. You’re always a student, too,
which is the mark of an exceptional ancestor-to-be,

when you understand that. Yes, life is short. Sure,
sickness and stiffness, pain and illness, death and taxes.

But joy. Gotta practice joy. Spread it around like a good germ.
Shower folks with smiles as if they were free (because they are).

Delight in the smallest things as you take up the hose to water
the old gardenia in the front yard—the tail-wagger leaving

the apartment next door with his person, as they do every day.
The little boy across the street coming home from preschool,

running to the door, that day’s painting in hand, hollering
for his mom. Dad following. Toss them a friendly wave,

you soon-to-be ancestor. Graduation’s right around the corner.
Of course, you’ll pass. Everyone does. You, with flying colors.

I knew I’d been losing them for years,
dropping them like fall leaves here
and there, there and here.

But I never imagined they’d appear
in the little square cigar box that long ago
sat in my closet with other childhood

belongings, consigned by my nearly
15-year-old self to a sturdy packing box
that my father then hefted into the rafters

of the garage. Fifty-three years later
my sister has retrieved the weighty thing
on which my teenaged hand scrawled

in Red Sharpie: “This belongs to Jan”
with a brief list of contents: sand dollars,
artwork, Girl Scout manuals, yearbooks.

Nowhere did it indicate, when I lifted
the lid off the box that had not seen
daylight for 50 years, that I’d find

a cluster of shiny marbles like colorful
pearls waiting for someone to rediscover
them, winking their cat’s eyes at a much

older me, blinking in surprise. So that’s
where they went—not lost, just tucked
away. And now that I’ve found them,

I have no idea if it’s possible to put
them back where I need them
in this aging brain. But look—there’s

a shooter and a clearie, translucent
and air-bubbled, tiny time machines
in this creased palm that holds them,

ricochetting me way, way back to
the then, on the playground with friends,
on my knees, shooting my favorite

glassy green boulder into a chalk circle
polka-dotted with so many marbles
I had yet to lose.

Ripe and ready, one of her offspring
wears a scar, which is not surprising.

Even the young among us acquire
boo-boos, which, if we are lucky,

heal nicely as our growing selves
lengthen and thicken. The early

scars are joined by later ones,
just as Juliet, the lanky tomato plant,

has popped out a good number
of juicy ovals this summer, some

misshapen and odd. A thin line
on one’s side does not dissuade me,

when the fruit is just-right red, from
gently plucking it and bringing it

into the kitchen with several of its
brethren, bound for tonight’s

corn salad. We swallow our scars,
rather than letting them swallow us,

imbibing all that healing that makes
us these perfectly imperfect selves.

To be reminded who we’re meant
to be, stand here still. Look up.

—Kim Stafford, from “Bright Dark Sky”

•••

We are meant to be vast, like the sky,
why birds draw our eyes upward,

why trees’ long limbs and great height
do, too, why the susurrus of wind

though leaves reminds us that what
can’t be seen is powerful beyond

the heart’s measure. We are large,
as the poet said, contradictory, yes;

we contain multitudes. And when
we are still, standing in our infinite

selves, looking up, we see that
we, too, are sky, the blue-black sky,

day and night, cloudy and bright,
astronomical, limitless, extraordinary.

•••

susurrus: a light whispering or rustling sound like wind through leaves; a murmur.

(In memory of Georgann Turner
March 1, 1951–August 17, 2021)

Decades ago, when I first heard you
say this, it had not yet morphed into
cliché, inscribed on rocks and plaques
and pendants, something grownups
say to children or lovers to each other:

“Love you to the moon and back.”

An impossibly far-away number,
about 477,000 miles, so distant as
to be mythical, this sentiment that
heightens and dramatizes devotion.

But several years after you vanished
into—well, the wherever—on a dusky
purple evening as I drove through
a pioneer cemetery in the high desert,
I saw the stenciled words that I heard
you so often say to your beloveds.

I had to stop the car, leaping out
to take a photo, certain in that selfish
way we the living embrace that this
was a message from you. Silly,
of course. Certainly not original.

NASA officials spoke of going
“to the moon and back” when three
men did in 1969, two of them
imprinting their Earthly soles
in fine lunar soil.

But seeing it there in bold blue
with other dearly departed
zinged you back into me with
such tympanic force, I felt my
heart tremble. In a good way.

I love when you swoop in,
as companion spirits do. I think
it’s how you play with us—
though yes, it could be wishful
thinking.

But since there you were, letting this
be a sign unto me, how could I do
anything but pixelize the moment
as my stuttering heart ba-bumped
its way back into action?

How could I do anything but thank
you for all that love rocketing back
at me from the far side of forever?

Which sounds related to crows,
as in “corvid,” which they are in a way,
carved stone supports projecting

from walls to support weight, often
colossal weight of great structures—like
cathedrals’ massive arches and beams.

A corb in old French was a raven, and
corbels resembled the hooked beaks
of the massive black birds and their

smaller crow cousins. Which leads me
to think of all the silent, sturdy supports
I take for granted, like corbels

underpinning medieval buildings
for nearly a thousand years. Not unlike
crows that surely land on some

of those ancient corbels, or their American
relatives I see every day on my street,
pecking hot asphalt for anything edible.

We are held by the unseen—like my
Neighbor who each morning quietly
sprinkles birdseed on the corner

for hungry avian friends. Like you
and you and you, my great footholds
in the world, cornerstones that

serve as the bedrock of my existence,
my corbels, without whom I could not
touch down nearly as solidly,

always offering a safe place to land.

Never doubt that they remain with us,
the elders keeping watch,

time-traveling sentinels standing
guard, offering silent protection,

their heartstones testament to
their mission: keeping us safe.

That they occasionally make
appearances, shimmering into

physical form pleases us
when we behold them,

these temporal voyagers
who then vanish into mystery,

as we will do one day,
with luck, joining them

in their assignment of
cosmic caretaking.

It is time to remember the unfolding,
To remember the river comes to me.
—Meg Kaczyk, from “Still, Life”

•••

I am one of the folded—
like an accordion,
both instrument and file,

the bright yellow origami box
folded by a retired engineering professor
that sat for years on my desk,

the rainbow umbrella waiting
in the hall closet for rain,

my father’s pocketknife that
he used to dig grit from under
his nails,

and my mother’s smaller gold one
that lived on the table beside
her chair in the family room,

ready to open what needed opening.
Like butterflies folding their wings
vertically as they rest,

or the forelegs of a praying mantis
waiting, snapping them out in
50 milliseconds to snatch prey
from the air.

Now to unfold from the crouch,
to slowly uncurl the backbone
like a wave lifting from the base
of the ocean,

taking an upright stance, shake out
the geological folds of tectonic
compression

and remember what wants
remembering, perhaps within
hearing of the river,

whispering, Come in;
the water’s fine.