Güd wrtr

Because I didn’t want to miss the last
of the early wildflowers,
and because it was such a perfect, blue-sky day,
and because I knew the lake surface would run
to cobalt under that sky,
and, suspecting that the water would be
quite high, which it was,

I made my way to the lake I still think of
as mine, a folder of stories tucked under my arm,
imagining that I would sit in the spring breeze
under the shade of a white willow tree
near the waterline, get some work done.

But there were two boys at the lip
of sand and shore attempting to cast a line,
and a woman with three dogs heading
for a point to the north that I love.

And on the lake, a motorboat droning
a familiar hum zoomed toward the dam
as two riders on horseback meandered
across the sand, a dog leading the way,
as if summoned for a photo.

And when I finally found a place to sit
under that willow, I heard but did not see
a fish jump in the shallows,

and one of the boys, who had put down
his pole, walked the shoreline with
a confident stride much older than his years,
ankle-deep in my lake that is now his, too,
off to go see what he could see.

I loved the pale pink leotard that hugged my six-year-old self,
and even more, the stiff pink tutu worn on special occasions,

though my little body tottered not only when I rose to my toes
but standing flat-footed, or walking, or running. I could and did

trip over obstacles, real and imagined, which was one reason
my mother took me to the ballet studio. There I began to learn

that I could be not particularly good at something to love it.
I’ve been practicing grace ever since. Not just in my unsteady

self that had, as a wise older friend told a 20-something me,
“not yet decided to stay” in my body. I resolved to stay, and have.

But grace, I’ve learned, is not only about the “-ful” bit, about
refinement of movement or courteous goodwill, or offering thanks,

but also about blessings constantly bestowed upon us for free,
for no good reason, because of the generosity of the spirit

of the universe. So that every time I totter and sometimes fall,
when I am caught and held safe, the words “thank you” cross

my mind and lips, which the little pink tutu’d ballerina likely
did not say often enough to her mother and father, to the little

sister who, too young for ballet class, stood in the doorway
learning all the steps her big sister struggled with. And so I say

again, to all of them, those beloveds here and gone, to the great
spirit that made us all, thank you. Thank you so very much.

•••

Thanks to Micah Darden for this wonderful line that inspired the title of this poem.
He was one of ten people who spoke on March 22, 2026, at the Unitarian Universalist
Society of Sacramento service, reflecting on Mary Oliver’s phrase “Your wild and
precious life,” from her poem, “The Summer Day.”

Today amplifies creativity and ambition, offering new paths
and expressive channels.
—Daily Om horoscope, March 21, 2026

•••

How do they know, those horoscope writers?

It says that Leo is my most compatible sign,
that it complements my dynamic energy.
So as a Leo, does that mean I’m most
compatible with me?

Still, the Daily Om horoscope nails it today:

You may find yourself leading a meeting at work,
inspiring your coworkers, or even speaking
for a discussion group in your personal life.

Though I am happy that I no longer have
work in the traditional sense, much less
superiors or coworkers, I like this bit:

By embracing your own natural talent for empowering others
and allowing your true personality to shine today,
you could end up making a positive impression
on superiors, coworkers, or even clients.

And I get a horoscopical pat on the back for rising early (for me):
Expect to feel a surge of initiative combined with
a steady resolve to see things through.

I should, my horoscope advises:
Focus on fostering connections that enhance personal growth.
Explore fresh opportunities and let your personality shine today.
Harness the energy for growth.

This makes me blush:
Your charm and charisma could be strong today,
and this could attract many opportunities to shine.

So I’ll take it, me with my steady resolve
doing what I know I’m meant to do—

exploring opportunities,
growing energetically,
shining, always shining—

over here in my little corner of the cosmos.

Make a list:

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

Keep going.

Now close your eyes and absorb all the love of the universe,
even the bits that you don’t think are for you.

They’re for you.

And everything you’ve ever wanted? That’s there for you, too.
Perhaps not in the form you imagined. Expand that vision.
Allow for substitutions, amendments, additions,
maybe for the wonky and weird.

Maybe wrap some white, healing light around it,
or a rainbow or two—any kind of shimmer
that illuminates your soul.

Now release it all; watch it drift away like dandelion fluff.

Everything you’ve ever wanted?

There you go.

Hand watering the day before
the vernal equinox, my flip-flopped
toes splattered with hose spray

after months of cold feet encased
in warm socks and wool slippers—
this is how I know it’s spring.

I love that it’s predicted to hit
90 degrees today, as I try to fan
the warmth eastward, hoping

to heat up chilly friends who
can’t yet imagine this. In my front
yard the yellow daisies bounce

like golden retrievers, and though
I’m regretting having the wisteria
pruned so severely in January,

I stand under the driveway trellis,
counting the lavender clusters
(eight!) purpling the baby leaves

greening overhead. It’s all about
the green, the riot of show-offy
colors the flowers have on display.

The older I get, the giddier I get,
as if I’d never watched nature
do what she so capably does—

no matter the sorrows of the world,
so many of them human-inflicted—
sends spring springing our way,

a perfect balance of day and night,
abundant joy in every blossom,
kindness in the flourishing of green,

the promise of growth dripping
on my toes.

Driving through my neighborhood,
I find myself pulling over to curbs
to step outside on an unseasonably
warm March afternoon, two days

before actual spring, compelled
by the reemergence of colors
long stashed for winter trumpeting,
Look-at-me! look-at-me! So I do,

stopping to photograph poppies
the color of fresh lava preening
by a picturesque fence. But it’s
waves of pink dogwood blossoms

bobbing from a tree on 39th Street
that really get me. She’s a quiet,
unassuming neighbor I’ve been
acquainted with for years,

though at the moment she’s taking
a prima donna turn, showing off
her spring colors before she fades
into green like others around her.

Which is why I like to stop to admire
her now. These blossoms that arrive
arrive early and leave soon in favor
of leaves to come deserve our

admiration, even for a moment.
We all deserve such admiration,
even the most ordinary among us
that some might consider weeds.

Like the little yellow flowers
springing from newly greening
clover, petaled suns beaming
a few inches off the ground.

We don’t need to know their
names to pause and say, “How
bright and cheerful you are.
Thanks for making me smile.”

And if we’re lucky,
when the light is just right,
we might catch them
smiling back.

years ago, now 25 of them,
and for so many of those
I thought what a shame it was
that, as early flowers were raising
their heads and tiny flies and ants
were beginning their work,
when you could see the buds on
winter-bare branches,
you were missing the best part.

But now I think you had it right:
To lift off into mystery when the Earth
you knew was brightening
makes perfect sense,
when surely, you, too,
were heading into light.

As if we have a choice,
which perhaps we do,
though we may not be aware of it,
like the purple-throated lilies
popping up in our backyard,
opening into spring,
their timing always perfect.

•••

In memory of my husband, Clifford Ernest Polland,
who died March 18, 2001, at age 48.

is, apparently, my leprechaun name,
and since we are all Irish
on St. Patrick’s Day,

let it be so. Though I pay tribute
to my actual Irish ancestors
named Keeley,

including my grandpa who could
turn on a brogue with a twist
of the tongue,

and his daughter, my mother,
who happily celebrated each
March 17. I envision the two

of them and other ancestors
jollying in the after, those
on whose shoulders

I stand, who paved the way
for Jolly McNoodles and
my sister, Dreamy O’Doodles,

and all who follow us.

I did not know its name until
I took a photo of the wingéd thing
clinging to the stucco wall near
my front door, and looked it up:

a white-lined sphinx moth,
aka, the hummingbird moth
for the way it hovers. Large
and lovely as some moths
can be, but unmoving.

Not wanting to disturb it, I left
it there until morning when,
as is my habit, I brought kibble
and fresh water to the porch.

Then I ventured a tentative finger
to a lower wing. Not a twitch,
not a flutter. And as this small death
registered, I could not help but
think of the neighbor’s kitty who
faithfully arrived every morning
to see what good stuff he
might graze on.

“It’s always more fun to eat out,”
I’d tell his embarrassed mom.

Hearing me inside the house,
Hercules would rise from his spot
on my doormat, arching his back
into a “Finally!” pose, then, as he
bent to nibble, allowing a gentle
pat down the back of his head.

Years ago, he’d hiss if I tried to
touch him, but he came to allow it,
eventually seeming to tolerate—
if not like—the affection.

Last week, away from home,
when I got the text from his mom
saying that Hercules had died,
I felt that space in my chest
open to accommodate this fresh
grief, knowing that mornings
on the porch would not be the same.

Which is why I have not dislodged
the hummingbird moth. Why I’m
still leaving food—not for the one who
will not come again, but for those
four-footed neighbors who will,

grateful for the visitations,
whether daily or of the moment,
all of them temporary blessings.

We the multitude rising with spring.
—Kim Stafford

Eager for spring, we have leapt
across an hour as the equinox
approaches in five days.

Consumed by so much of humanity’s
turmoil, we cannot help but brighten
under March sunshine,

warmer days and, at the grocery
store, beguiled by long green pencil
stems of yellow-tipped daffodils

begging to be brought home and
put in a pink vase. Look at them:
eager to unfold, golden petal by petal,

a bright tutu circles the first frilly
emerging ballerina. Watch her rise
en pointe, ready to twirl into this

glorious spring, amid soft wind
and birdsong, she and her troupe
of merry dancers joining in,

each nodding and beaming at
their admirers, all of us captivated
by such an exuberant display.