Güd wrtr

(for Kathy Keatley Garvey)

The safest place for an aphid is on the back
of a lady beetle, which seems dangerous
for the aphid, given the lady beetle’s

voracious appetite for the little buggers.
There’s logic in hiding in plain sight,
just out of view of this predator—

a biter of people, an eater of aphids—
considered more of a pest than its
gentler ladybug cousin. But the little guy

riding shotgun doesn’t know that,
hitching a ride on a convenient conveyance—
two resourceful wee beasties

facing an infinitely precarious future,
fulfilling their roles as all creatures do
in the universe of things,

moving in tandem toward
an unknown destination
one tiny step at a time.

I bring home two bunches
of the unbloomed things,
slender green pencils with
just a hint of what’s to come

at the tips, their shrouded
crayon color that will, in
a day or two, fluff into hot
yellow skirts of daffodils,

trumpeting spring through
perky floral bullhorns. I do
this every year—squeak in
delight when they appear in

rubber-banded clusters. I may
have gone to the store for cheese
sticks and yogurt, avocado and
a turkey-and-apple sandwich,

but I cannot ignore the whisper
of a full bin of daffodils fixin’
to bloom, $2.99 a bunch.
Take ‘em home, add water

to a favorite vase, plop ’em
in and stand back. I swear
they unfurl in slow motion,
ruffle by ruffle as I watch,

a time lapse of blossoms
blossoming on the dining
room table, a forgotten
miracle I didn’t realize

I was waiting for.

We all bear the great weight
of unseen somethings.

For you, one hand hovering over
the avocados, carrying the great grief

of how could that happen?
that wasn’t supposed to happen.

For her, pushing the dense
boulder of a shopping cart

seemingly uphill, filled with
if only, if only, if only.

For him, picking up the quart
of milk, then the remembering,

the putting it back of how
could you leave me like this?

For me, filling a bag with
loose-leaf tenderness,

along with a handful
of softheartedness,

and leaving it right there
for you, for her, for him,

to lighten the heaviness
of the invisibles we tote,

everywhere we go.

You might cross that bridge
when you come to it,
or you might not.

You, overburdened
pilgrim, a tiny bit broken,
might hesitate, stop even,

wondering what the next
right step might be. You,
ferrying your own fragile

heart—you, witness,
caretaker of so many
others’ stories. Take

a breath, brave human,
and set a tentative foot
on the bridge that will

lead you somewhere,
though you cannot see
where. One foot, then

the other and another,
right step after right step—
you and your limpy,

wayfaring self—
press forward, then
pause for another breath.

Look up and revel in
the beyond-endless
clouds frothily stacked

like whipped cream,
like a storm-surged sea.
Take a moment for awe,

you with so much love
stinging your heart,
suspended between

this side and that,
between now and then,
between here and gone.

You cannot go astray.

adj: [yoo-də-MAH-nik] Conducive to happiness

•••

A cloudy day,
dry in our city while
snow bombards
the Sierra,

and warmish,
enough so that some
of us remove our
scarves, our gloves,

but we happily wear
our smiles as we follow
Shelley through
a morning’s exercise,

sitting sometimes,
standing at others,
as 1964 hits bounce
around us—

of course,
She Loves You

of course, you
Can’t Buy Me Love

And when the
opening notes of
Twist and Shout
twang in our ears,

Shelley calls out,
Dance! and we do.
twisting like
teeny boppers,

all us happy,
happy oldies.

There is no ruler for love,
no way to precisely measure
the depth and breadth and height
a soul can reach,

just as you reach into the cupboard
for the glass with its fine red lines
stair-stepping up its squatty self
that measures only ounces,
not devotion,

just as your grandmother’s
measuring spoon cannot accurately
weigh a tablespoon’s worth of her
affection to pour into the chasm
of you.

So much is measureless,
it seems—that cloud wandering
lonely across a blue-sky day
or the weight of a ginormous
stormy mass darkening everything
beneath it before delivering
a good soaking rain.

Trying to measure the abstract,
you find after years of trying,
is pointless.

Like feeling some part deep inside—
one you can’t name and don’t want to—
that swells at the mention of a beloved
you’ll never see again.

Like standing before a painting
hanging alone on a vast white wall
that depicts no specific reality—
the very definition of abstract—
that somehow moves you.

Or, sitting in an audience, and,
as notes lift like tiny hot air
balloons, feeling yourself rise
with the orchestra, looking down,

all that limitless love
suffusing you to overflowing.

Mine is four-footed and feline ancient,
hopping up on the towel-covered box
next to my desk, eager to join me—

or the banana nut muffin I have
thoughtlessly moved out of her reach.
Poki is old and limpy, but if I

get a muffin for myself, no matter
where she is in the house, my mews
will find it—though what she really

wants is to nibble the crumbs left
on the paper muffin cup, a tiny
bit of sweetness in what I think of

as her last years, possibly months.
Don’t we all look for the opportunity
to sit with them, sometimes with

a single cry? I’m here, I love you,
please share a little bit of you
with me.

Three chrysalises nestle on a leaf,
a trio of Taylor’s checkerspots, once

thought extinct. But, pupa by hard-
shelled pupa, the former caterpillars

wound into their spotted sheaths
busily go about the earnest business

of growing wings, of becoming
fliers, thanks to thoughtful humans

working to ensure their existence.
With luck they will eclose in spring

as full-fledged fliers to lay clusters
of up to 1,200 eggs, doing their best

to perpetuate their kind. That such a
tiny creature should matter in a world

losing species every day. That these
butterflies-to-be—gestating canaries

in the proverbial coal mine—will,
upon emergence, with urgent delicacy,

remind us of what is worth saving,
of delicate beauty so easily lost.

heading into the post office to mail a book,
and there, next to my car, it lies face up,

hearting at me. I blink, begin walking, but
after three steps, I turn and return to bend

and peer more closely—a lone cookie encased
in plastic, the kind you might find in a bakery,

intact, not a crack or a crumble on its heart-y
icing. I think, I’ll leave it here for the next

person who comes along needing some
love. But when I come out of the post office,

it has begun to drizzle, and it occurs to me
that the sweet heart might not withstand

the predicted drenching to come. So I pick
it up, looking for someone to offer it to,

but there is no one. I am alone in the P.O.
parking lot, a rare occurrence on a Saturday,

as drops dot me and the cookie. And I wonder,
Is this some kind of sign?

Which is when the voice of my long-dead
red-haired angel cracks from the overhang

of dove gray cumulus: Honey, you think this is
an accident? How many times have I told you:

There are no accidents. Who do you think
this is for? And—tempted to remind her

that it should be “whom,” not “who”—she
shushes me. Don’t get distracted by grammar,

honey. Of course, it’s for you. Always pick up
love when it appears before you.

And so I do.

populating Trader Joe’s,
reminded of the beauty of
the slightly crooked nose,

the extra chins under dark-
pupil’d eyes, the crinkles of
countenance that show

our infinite varieties of human,
the spice of life in everyone’s DNA
right there on Aisle 4 where

I reach for the 21 Seasoning Salute,
which will go home to snuggle
next to other spices in the cabinet

right next to the fridge,
where the faces of beloveds
cling, magnetized, as well as

the inside of the medicine cabinet
and the filing cabinets in my office—
among them the sweet faces

of two little girls in red,
the ones we used to be so long ago
I cannot remember us then,

except when I look at photos
like this one—our baby-teeth grins,
our white-blonde hair,

a pair of young souls with
nothing but promise, with
everything ahead of them.

•••

for Donna Gail, just because