We sometimes think that stunning
end-of-day skies happen only
at the edges of the Earth,
ideally standing on a spit of land
or sand by the ocean, where
some unseen hands watercolor
the heavens. But then we step
outside wherever we happen to be,
take in a swatch of sky, and there,
we breathe in the last light,
admire the swash of orangey
pink that turns a parking lot
into a moment of wonder,
this sky that will never again—
like us—look like this.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
—poet Jack Gilbert from “A Brief for the Defense”
In my case, the sharp sounds of mallets hitting metal,
practicing the bells solo to “Stars and Stripes Forever,”
which I haven’t performed in forever, but will
in early May, along with other American classics
as this country celebrates its 250th year. Which,
despite everything—the needless damage inflicted
on institutions of the people, by the people
and for the people—not to mention on the people
themselves, here and abroad—it is, for better
or worse, my country. A half century ago,
as a bicentennial high school graduate,
I played patriotic music all year with bands
and orchestras till I was ready to throttle
John Phillip Sousa. All these decades later,
standing at the back of a band, mallets
at the ready for bells and xylophone—
also woman-ing triangle and crash cymbals
I am again music, despite everything,
contributing in my percussive way
to the whole, determined to get Mr. Sousa’s
famous march melody tack sharp perfect
for Americans and all who deserve to be,
god bless us every one.
Now that I’m officially one of the young-old,
as one of my old-old friends has dubbed me,
I have been made aware that I have a fondness
for certain citizens of gardens that are,
apparently to many, old lady plants. They seem
to live in the categories of the fragrant,
like lilacs and gardenias and roses, or poofy
like hydrangeas and rhododendrons, or
pretty like azaleas. Though I don’t math, I can’t
help but admire the geometrical perfection
of the highly ordered camellias with their
spiraling, overlapping petals in groups of
5s, 8s, 13s—a living example of the Fibonacci
sequence in which each element is the sum
of the two elements that precede it.
And really, isn’t that true of old lady plants?
They are the result of eons of evolution, like
all of us old ladies, if we’re fortunate to become
them. Like the ever-reliable geraniums, we suit up
and show up to grace our environments with color.
And how can we not get swoony over the scents
of lilacs and gardenias, which may remind us
of our grandmothers, likely the first old ladies
we knew? As some of us are now, cradling
our own grandchildren in our capable arms,
perhaps walking them into our gardens,
leaning in to sniff the new arrivals, introducing
the babies to the wonders of growing things
just like them.
(for Sue Reynolds, my spearmint mentor)
Now the new babies are sleeping,
tucked into their compost-lined
cribs in the front yard, though
with time they will creep, as babies
do, before they leap into energetic
growth. But for now, the geum
and poppies, the lavender and tiny
daisies rest, gather strength, grow
quietly. Still, I’m gobsmacked
by the spearmint sprigs leaping
into their third year, the ones
I smuggled home from my
Canadian friend’s garden two
summers ago. I hear that mint
muscles its way into spaces
it shouldn’t, shoving aside the less
aggressive. But I tried for years
to grow any kind of mint, only to
have it squashed or eaten by cats
who didn’t care that it wasn’t catnip.
Not until I bootlegged this northern
transplant in a cross-cultural exchange—
watching it sleep and leap through two
growing seasons like a champ—have
I seen so many spearmint stems lining
my driveway, its perky green leaves
ripe for snipping. Delighted, I dig out
the little red teapot, a sister to
the one my Canadian friend has
on her kitchen counter, and pluck
the leaves the way she taught me,
insert them into the pot’s mini
colander, and douse the mint
with not-quite-boiling water,
smiling as I inhale the steam.
I just might drink this every day
if the mint can keep up with me
before it, too, recedes for winter,
both of us leaping with joy
through this growing season,
luxuriating in these lengthening days,
reaching for the light.
(For the Artemis II astronauts who looped around the moon on
April 6, 2026, the first humans to do so in more than a half century.)
It must be, I imagine, like
catching a glimpse of someone
you have a crush on,
or getting to see a movie star/
rock star/famous someone
in person, even from a distance.
And when, 160,000 miles away,
you snap an image of your home
planet, how giddy you must feel,
all the borders and wars and idiocy
of humans falling away, as everyone
who’s seen Earth from space says,
agog at the beauty of swirling clouds
over the bluest blue—just like in
the photos. But here you are,
with three others on your way to
orbit the moon, the first humans in
a half century to do so, the names
of your predecessors exhaled with
every breath of manmade air. Here
you are, rocketmen (and woman),
scientist/explorers to your core,
swooning over the best view in
your corner of the solar system,
thrilled at the view out a small
window into the blackness of space,
captivated by your beloved planet
slowly turning half its face into
the light, and your good luck
to be alive to see it.
•••
(With thanks to poet Jane Hirshfield for her words
that inspired the last lines of this poem.)
Be kind… It feels good
The license plate ahead of me
suggests on Easter morning,
having just come from
a labyrinth walk at church
where, as I circled the perimeter,
holding space for the walkers,
I could not keep from smiling,
watching the faces of pilgrims lighten
in the light of a new morning,
even as they carried their cares
and sorrows and joys with them
along the path. As we all do.
The little license plate reminder
embodies the generosity of spirit
infusing this day of rebirth and hope,
walking under the reassuring rustle
of new leaves whispering in their own
language what sounds like peace.
And in the pouring, somehow a blessing.
And in the pounding of my heart, somehow a blessing.
And in the gaps, somehow a blessing that gathers itself
even now, that has been gathering itself for ages,
that will never stop.
—Jan Richardson
•••
And to say it aloud,
not asking or pleading
but blessing,
without needing a holy one
to do so—
rather, recognizing
the holy in you that gently nudges
you to speak of the broken,
of the lost, of the unrelenting sorrow.
Somehow a blessing stutters
through your heart, makes its way
through the gaps, winds around
the suffering you have taken on,
pushes itself between your lips,
becoming breath,
as you praise and praise and praise,
as you voice the anger and the ache,
as you walk the path before you,
letting what needs to
pour from the overfull pitcher
of you, the vessel,
you, the blessing,
you, the blessed.
•••
Lines from Jan Richardson’s “Sparrow: A Book of Life
and Death and Life” © 2020, Wanton Gospeller Press
I am going to listen for the water at the edge of things.
—Anne Lamott (quoting a child at her church)
Listen.
I know that walking my neighborhood,
marveling at the show-offy flowers,
spring springing, is a distraction.
I know how much awful we are in,
that the world is in. But I also know
that when it rains, as it did this week,
gentle showers in my corner of the world,
as I walk, I am quiet enough to listen for
the water at the edge of things. I love
walking a labyrinth in rain, amid the patter
of drops, hearing the spontaneous creek
burbling its way to the big river down
the street—even under an umbrella,
this is the blessing, the answered prayer,
if not the answer I was hoping for.
Awful is still awful. But good is still good,
too, and goodness and grace go on. Look
at the splashy flowers, the canopy of trees,
leaves popping out, growing each day.
Is this not reason enough for joy?
Babies celebrating their first birthdays,
Tongue-wagging dogs tugging at leashes,
Smiles of strangers, who, if we stop
for just a moment, say hello and exchange
some neighborly words, are on their way
to becoming familiar. So close to family.
So close to friend.
•••
(With thanks to Anne Lamott for the inspiration and a version of the line
“goodness and grace go on.” And in honor of Rosie Mae Just Giel,
whose first birthday our family is celebrating today.)
I came home to find
a purple-hatted wizard and a
red-lipped fish with a dragon-y tail
on my doorstep, two creations
dropped off by my clay-artist friend
after I had admired them.
I grinned and perhaps let out
a squeal when I saw two of the ones
she thinks of as wizards and monsters,
but I see as spirit guardians, little
oracles embodied in clay and glaze
that stand guard with long white beard
and googly green happy eyes
catching mine, which crinkle around
the corners with delight.
•••
(for Rose Varesio with my thanks)
(for Clifford)
I imagine you’ve been keeping an eye
on things from your spot in the mystery
twenty-five years after your departure,
watching our front yard transform from
a rectangular swath of lawn (to be generous)
known for its impressive annual crop
of dandelions (which we loved) to the mostly
lava-rock-too-freepin’-hot-in-summer-what-
was-I-thinking? landscape (to be generous)—
neither of which I loved, to be honest.
But this latest incarnation, an aspiring cottage
garden, done with the thoughtful advice
and hands of experts, has me on a padded
kneeler under cloudy skies on April Fool’s Day,
tucking 21 baby plants into nicely amended
soil. The elegant, long-limbed Japanese maple
bows over me, and the ginkgo (its top
inadvertently snapped off some years ago)
is now taller than I am, its new green fans catching
tiny pearls of rain. Though I’m feeling gluteus
maximus muscles I typically don’t after all
the kneeling, I am prayerful in the plantin’
as I bless the little ones with the words
my Master Gardener friend said to those
she planted yesterday: “Welcome home.”
And now I whisper it to you, husband,
you who thankfully has never left.
Güd wrtr 