Güd wrtr

The sweet, small, clumsy feet of April came into
the ragged meadow of my soul.
—e. e. cummings

•••

I set my rain-booted ones in April’s clumsy feet,
clomping through puddles like someone

much younger and closer to the ground,
not minding the dampening of my pants,

enjoying the squish and splash penetrating
my soul’s ragged meadow—

more parched than I had realized, far too
grown up for its own good,

reawakened by a playful soaking on
a rare rainy day in spring.

Not until later did I chuckle at what
passers-by might think of the coatless,

hatless, white-haired lady in her purple
rain boots careening through puddles

on an otherwise nondescript city sidewalk,
giggling with undisguised delight.

(Folsom Boulevard, Sacramento, California)

Walk into the foyer of the store,
and you’re hit in the floral sense
with all manner of bouquets

at reasonable prices, perfect
for spontaneous gift-giving
or, in the case of small bunches

of about-to-bloom daffodils,
for a vase at home to watch
them burst into sunshine.

But outside on the corner
of the lot several exuberant
bush roses are parked,

at the moment a riot
of soft pink, compelling me
to stop, take their photo

in the wild as, inside,
I appreciate their brethren
rounded up for those

who will take them in,
appreciate them in their
already-dying state.

Not unlike some of the
pink roses outside.
Not unlike those of us

coming in to shop for what
temporarily sustains us in
these all-too-transient bodies.

And now some of the same monks
who trekked 2,300 miles across
a good chunk of the United States

are walking through Sri Lanka
with their simple message of peace,
offering blessings to hundreds

who line roadways:
May you be happy.
May you be peaceful.

May you be well.
May you be free from suffering
and the causes of suffering.

They set out on foot each morning
despite—or perhaps because of—
the cruelties of the world,

remind us that gentleness thrives, too,
that peace and kindness resides within
so many who have strewn huge

banana leaves on the ground, to cool
hot pavement with water and petals,
to offer flowers, provide food,

a place to sleep, kind hands
to tend what’s hurting, who act
as escorts and welcome with

such open hearts strangers
in their midst who ask for nothing,
like the gentle monks who

leave love in their wake, each
step taken in the name of peace,
so that those who bow

and those who walk are one,
not others at all,
who are us.

•••

You can follow the Walk for Peace Buddhist monks on their
April 2026 journey through Sri Lanka here.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.
—William Shakespeare, from “Cymbeline”

•••

It’s possible that Shakespeare came into the world
and left it on the same day 52 years later, though

no one knows for sure. Both are commemorated
on April 23, so on this day, some 410 years

after his death, pleased to see the first blooms
of cosmos standing tall in my front yard,

from the sidewalk I offer a small bouquet
of Will’s words to the newly blossomed—

“Now, my fair’st friend,
I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours”—

grateful for those that come now, for those that
will soon be gone, and for all the rest to come.

•••

The Shakespeare lines are from “The Winter’s Tale.”

The little patch of earth I steward
today opened its mouth to gratefully
receive what might well be the last
precipitation of the season,

living, as I do, in the land of little rain,
which makes me thankful, too,
for what humans do to collect it
and protect it,

makes me think of the finally
free-flowing Klamath River
far north of my home turf,
wrangled into submission

by the water-hungry occupiers
more than a century ago,
dammed in more ways than one,
at last set free, now recovering

as its indigenous defenders
have wanted for a hundred years,
salmon swimming ever farther
upstream to spawn,

the baby salmon now starting
their journey to the ocean in
water that those who know
it best once called putrid.

Now, they’ll tell you,
the river, at long last,
smells sweet.

•••

I’m grateful to have heard this story featuring Amy Bowers Cordalis
of the Yurok Tribe and the author of “The Water Remembers”
describing the recovery of the Klamath River since the last
of its four dams was removed in October 2024.

Every step is part of the journey.
—Brother David Steindl-Rast

•••

Begin, the good brother advises,
with a pause and a deep breath.
Then ask the question:

What am I carrying into this moment?

Every step becomes a pilgrimage,
a journey to a sacred center,
one that transforms,

even if we do not feel the shift.
Intentional step after intentional
step keeps us on our path,

though mine is likely not the same
walkway as yours. What you carry
is not what I carry into this moment.

Yet we both take one step at a time
toward what all beings want: love,
self-compassion, courage

and understanding. We ground
with each step; we unfold. May we
remember to set down what

is not ours to carry. Lighter,
then, may our wings carry us
wherever we need to go.

You know that thing that happens
when you think you’ve got
the thing down—

you’ve been practicing the thing
ad nauseum bit by bit
here and there for weeks—

and you go to do the thing,
confident that you can do
the thing—because you had it,

you really had it, during all
that practice—and then it
becomes abundantly clear

that you don’t have the thing
down when it really matters,
making you wonder what

all that practice was for,
which sends you right back
to practicing, your jaw now

set in its most determined
posture, because you are
going to get that thing down

if it’s the last thing you do,
which is when that little voice
of… well, who knows who…

nudges you with its ethereal
elbow and says, “Honey, relax.
You’re bound up like a rubber

band ball. It’ll happen if you
just relax.” And you sigh, letting
your jaw soften into its naturally

jowly state, and you think of
whoever it was in the long ago who
made you laugh when he said,

“We’re having fun, dammit!”
And you remember it was the one
you called Father, sitting out there

in the dark, applauding his girl
up there in the band, playing her
little heart out. She didn’t have

that thing down perfectly either.
She still doesn’t. But she is having
fun, dammit. She really is.

(for Cliff)

I plant a single tomato plant in your memory,
a slender sprig about a foot tall that will,
if she follows the directions on her little stake,
produce small, torpedo-shaped orbs
perfect for plucking and popping
in the mouth.

Her name, according to her little plastic
license plate, is Juliet.

This is another act of faith, which I am
inspired to propagate because of the massive
number of annual and perennials I have tucked
into soil this spring, nudged by my garden
godmother friend.

You annually stuck springs of tomatoes-to-be
by the back fence, the sunniest place in the yard.
But since the sycamore tree has been trimmed
several times since your departure, more sun
falls on the little bed by the garage.

And since that is the spot where a mural
of brightly growing greenery now lives,
I hope it might inspire the little plants
looking up at it.

Following the advice of the nursery plant
counselor, I trundle home a wire cage not
unlike a hoop skirt to cradle the seedling.
Loosening its roots, nestling it in place,
transports me to long-ago summers here
when wooden half-tubs that formerly aged
wine sprouted cages and tomatoes—
a solution after our poaching dog developed
a fondness for the fire-engine red fruit.

That was another thing I learned from you:
Tomatoes are botanically fruit, though we think
of them as vegetable, because, of course, we can
be more than one thing at a time—like Juliet,
flesh and spirit growing out of the good earth,
lingering in the air.

(for Rose Varesio on her birthday)

we are wild particles of time
whirling to find each other as we drift apart
our lives sharpened and made wider
if we can survive the velocity of love

—maria popova

•••

Love speeds by us and through us
in a forward direction, not looking back,

leaving us winded when it’s had its way
with us. But here’s velocity in action

as buds appear, tight and green,
then through no human interference

take on the shape of roses-to-be
before unfolding their origami selves

into lush fragrance. How is that not
love? Yes, it will too soon relax into

itself, allowing for a graceful end,
but are we not made wider,

have we not flourished in the flowering?
We wild particles of time have done

much more than survive. Love has
blossomed in us and ever does,

as the beloved forever lives in us
season after season.

Plant something, suggests a wiser mind
than mine. Which I’ve been doing.
Literally.

And when the noise of cruelty and oppression,
of war and meanness vibrates through me
like a tuning fork,

I go to the nursery. As if I need more plants.
Bring them home. Water them. Speak kindly
to them.

“We do not need to see the whole future to begin.
We need to know where to put our hands.
And then we need to keep going.”

I put my ungloved hands in the dirt,
doing what is possible, a tiny possibility,
that might,

with enough water and sunlight and love
outlast this moment. And another.
And another.

Even if it dies, as it surely someday will,
As I surely someday will. Though what
I plant

might well outlive me,
as the dirt under my nails will
remind me for the rest of the day.

•••

(The quote in the fourth stanza is from the Rev. Cameron Trimble,
which inspired this poem. You can find her good writing here.)