Güd wrtr

(for Georgann)

Why today, of all days,
when I drive to a small town
where you used to take me
to stroll and shop, I get
a huge hit of you,
I have no idea.

But there you are,
as present as the sun,
equally bright, as I stand
on a dock amid pleasure boats
nosed into their slips, scanning
the water for the whiskered
face of a local swimmer.

Shading my eyes, I recall
a long-ago summer day when
you and I found ourselves
momentarily moored on that
same landing, watching a
bright-eyed sea lion patrol
the marina, his chocolate head
swiveling to scan us, too,
before diving soundlessly,
disappearing under the
diamond-sparkled surface.

By silent agreement we waited,
as I do today, hoping for a glimpse
of one who might materialize,
just for a moment, to see if those
gentle eyes might find mine
one more time.

(for Deborah Meltvedt on her 64th birthday)

This is how I think of you:
sitting inside a pasture fence,
pen in hand, notebook on lap,
grazing horses nearby,

or standing at a fence to let
a curious horse whiffle your
hand before you caress its
velvety nose—you, long

captivated by their smell,
their strength, their majesty,
happy to be in the presence
of such modest magnificence,

which is how I think of you—
your easy, loping gait as we
walk the levee, you who could so
easily outrun me, if you chose,

but you slow down for me,
for others, listening with your
gentle gaze and generous heart.
It is no wonder that we

gravitate to you, as delighted
to see us as we are you—
fine writer, fine rider,
kind friend.

(for Cathy Tkach on our
Port Townsend, WA, walk)

Here in the Pacific Northwest
the locals don’t blink at
hooved ones lying on lawns
or walking up the wrong side
of the road by the beach.

But we flatlanders from
California are mesmerized
by these cud-chewing plant
eaters, especially this mama
with her fawn ambling along—

each of us pausing to check
out the other species,
four females heading
the same direction on
an afternoon walk—

two of us keeping watch
on the other pair as they
cross the two-lane road,
all of us pedestrians
stopping traffic before
heading off in the direction
we need to go.

and I am oddly stressed about it,
as though I am back in the sixth grade
with Mrs. Keuter, who never cracked
a smile the whole year, insisting that
we recite in front of the class—a
particular kind of torture.

I wrote poetry. I felt words swimming
through me all the time, but I could not
make them stick in my brain long
enough to spit them back from memory.

And now, a new teacher, a well-known
poet at a writers’ workshop, has
assigned a bunch of grownup poets
to memorize and recite a poem
by the end of the week, and I find
that my brain is less sticky than ever.

Who forgot to install the file cabinet
in my brain full of fresh manila
folders crammed with syllables
so that I might reach in and retrieve
them, easy to recall, any time I wanted?

I could blame my about-to-be
65-year-old gray matter, but I think
that the words have grown used
to slipping downstream through
my left hemisphere like salmon.

If I don’t record them as soon
as they surface, hungry for mayflies,
the wily words fin away, heading
for the sea, joining so many others
in a school of their peers adding
to the great sea of poems

that some can remember
and so many of us cannot.

•••

(Photo: ballyscanlon / Getty Images)

(for Isabel Stenzel Byrnes)

Sitting on a patio overlooking
saltwater and forest, tiny bits
of fluff float toward me,
decorating my shirt with mini
seed pods bound for someplace
they can’t determine.

They literally go where the wind blows.

I idly wonder—cottonwood?
I don’t see any, the source escaping
me until I focus on the precise
direction all this wind-borne fluff
is coming from,

which is when my eyes land on
a tall plant just behind the thriving
sword fern—not individual globes
of dandelion that decorate lawns,
but long-stemmed starbursts
loosened to fly.

I move closer to watch, as if
keeping a close eye on fledglings
hesitating at the edge of a nest,
some already released into
the world.

But all are not ready to fly just yet,
as I suspect you—who wanted
to wring every breath from
your borrowed, ravaged lungs—
were not,

when a whoosh of wind pulled
you loose, sending you soaring
in a direction you could not choose,
your bits of fluff scattered in a
hundred directions,

landing for a moment on so many
who adored you and always will,
drifting by others, with your final,
loving touch.

Port Ludlow, Washington

(for Al and Terri Wolf)

I head down the path, laptop in tow,
to get some work done on an afternoon
when my hometown two states south

broils under mid-July heat. But here,
on the sub deck, some 30 degrees cooler,
I gaze out at the head of the Hood Canal

toward a thickly forested island that looks
to be a hearty stone’s throw across
the gray-green water. So close I can see

driftwood on the beach, count the pines
that nestle just above the high tide line,
as I look to the deep channel for subs

like the one we saw yesterday as our
hosts drove us to their home. We marveled
at the whopper of a Loch Ness monster,

tall neck outstretched above its dark back,
churning its way toward the Hood Canal
bridge, traffic stopped, our vehicle first

in line. Terri and Al bemoaned the
25-minute wait, but Cathy and I,
first-time visitors to see our friends

who’ve happily relocated in the Pacific
Northwest, emerged from the car to
stand in whipping wind and chart

the submarine’s approach, while before
us, the bridge parted like a Biblical sea
to allow the great beast’s passage.

Today I sit on a cushy sofa on Al’s sub
deck that he carved between ferns and
pines below their house, looking for subs—

which are not evident this afternoon,
though tufts of dandelion circle like
friendly gnats, and silhouettes of birds

do-si-do overhead as swirling cloud
scrawls lazily drift in wistful patterns
against the ever-changing blue sky

backdrop—aware that I am taking in
a tiny fraction of the world, that so
much remains unseen, so much I will

never perceive or understand,
which the birdsounds remind me
is perfectly all right—that, in fact,

it’s exactly as it should be.

I appear in a selfie taken
by a 50-something woman with
a Hawaiian-style backpack
and her turquoise T-shirt’d fella
as we stand in line,
waiting to board the plane.

She holds up her phone,
takes a photo, and in the small screen
I can see my face between them,
on their way to Israel, I overhear.

I want to ask her for a copy.
It’s rare that you get to catch
yourself in the act of an accidental
photo bombing, becoming part
of a stranger’s memory.

I wonder if they or the ones
who receive their portrait
will admire the couple en route
to adventure, then wonder,

Who is that smiling woman
with the glasses behind them?
What’s her story?

(for Terri, the day after her birthday
as I arrive for an in-person visit)

•••

We visit now, sometimes write together,
onscreen, my distant friend,

but somehow the miles melt as we talk,
as Quince makes an appearance,

as our long conversation continues,
not distant at all, but alive with stories.

You tour me around your workroom,
point me out the window toward

the pines and cobalt saltwater that
infuse you, inspire your words, your

your latest art pieces, that, thanks to
zooming magic, allow my aging eyes

to see you close up, almost better
than in person. No distance at all.

And that mammoth kitty in the picture
makes us both smile as he strolls

by, prompting me to reach toward
my screen, my hand ready to pat,

my arms sending you a hug.

(for Jill)

Jill brought me a single sunflower
the size of a bread plate, a small
orange stop sign atop a sturdy stem.

“I wanted to bring you the whole thing,”
said the flower-grower, beaming her
sunny grin, “but it wouldn’t fit in my car.”

And I imagined a six-foot-tall version
of this happy-faced seed pod leaning
out of one of her SUV’s windows,

its shaggy head nodding, its ray
flowers frilly as a tutu circling
the floret-filled center. If roses make

some of us swoon, sunflowers elicit
a smile, much like their cousins
the daisies, the instinct live in us

turn our faces sunward, soaking
up the warmth of our nearest star,
which this towering plant with

its heart-shaped leaves at its base
generates—this spectacular summer
gift that lets the sunshine in,

long may it blaze.

•••

Together We Heal, the nonprofit created and run by Jill Batiansila, grows
flowers each spring and summer to give to people who are grieving,
as well as offering free yoga, walking, counseling and writing sessions.
I’m honored to lead monthly writing groups for Together We Heal in
Elk Grove, California. Its groups and services are open to all.

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

—“Watermelons,” Charles Simic

I heft the perfect orb in one hand,
the size of a cantaloupe but
crocodile green with alligator stripes,
smiling at its smooth-firmness,
imagining the gifts inside.

And I find that I’m loath to cut
into it, which is silly. The temp’s
rising toward the century mark
again—perfect watermelon
weather.

But I’m transfixed by this globe
grown from seed, not shaped by
human hands, so perfect a piece
of art I’d pedestal it, write odes
to it, which I suppose I am,

promising myself that tomorrow
I’ll do it—take the big knife and halve
the sphere, take a spoon to it and spoon
its sweetness right into my mouth,
no plate, no napkin,

all that succulence settling onto
my tongue, swallowing summer
with perhaps a seed or two,
fruity lovingkindness eager to
sprout into pure joy.