Güd wrtr

It feels like a moment ago—not years—
when I delivered books of her poetry

to her shortly before her death, put a copy
in her hands, watched the skin stretched

thin over her knuckles as she stroked
the glossy cover of the slender volume,

some of her best work sewn into those
pages like an intricate quilt of many colors.

Today I brought copies of an anthology
to another poet slowly dying, hoping to

hold the collection of many voices,
including hers, before she finishes her

lifetime of words. I have lost track of how
many pieces I’ve published by those

knowingly dying or recently dead, a small
gift, sometimes delivered too late, that

makes eyes shine with unshed tears.
Leaving behind a creation we’ve sculpted

with our two hands and devoted intention
is perhaps the most meaningful gift we can

offer our beloveds. The art forged by those
too soon gone gleams like a shimmering road

map in the dark, illuminated simply, held
deeply by the brilliance of a passionate heart.

Hose in hand, watering plants
in Mom’s back yard on a day so
mild it hardly qualifies as summer,
I look up at the tree that’s grown
there for decades, dark green
leathery leaves shading oblong
’quats snuggled in trios, some of
the fallen already underfoot.

And, as I aim the hose at two nearby
hydrangeas lacing out elegantly,
something in me stirs, urges me
to pluck a ripe fruit from its birthplace,
splash it with the hose, take a bite.

I’m sure I’ve had loquats before,
but today, standing in afternoon
sun, thinking about deadheading
Mother’s roses that popped out
so vibrantly only weeks ago,

spitting out first one ’quat pit,
then the other, each as smooth as
a surf-washed pebble in my mouth,
I think, Not bad, these cousins
of plums and apricots, unable to
recall why I’d spurned them in
previous years.

Maybe, like that boy who rode
the bus to school with me every day,
whom I barely registered—one day
his sweetness caught my attention,
and then all I could think about
was how I might arrange to put
myself in his presence again,

how, on this summer afternoon
a half century later in my mother’s
yard, the taste of loquat soft in my
mouth, within sight of the spot
where the bus once stopped twice
a day, I can summon the freckles
on that cute boy’s face, envision his
winning grin.

Come for me now, World—
whatever is near, come close.
I have been over the water
and lived there all alone.

—William Stafford (1914–1993)
excerpt from “Looking Across the River” in “The Darkness Around Us Is Deep”

•••

It’s time to re-enter the world
knowing it will not look or feel or smell
the same as it did when you left it,

orbiting, as you have, in an unrecognizable
space of neither here nor there—or
there nor here. The world has come

for you, calling you back, wanting
your voice, your personhood, to travel
through the void, across the water,

to no longer be alone. You are not
convinced, content to linger in that
amorphous space, without pattern

or structure, lacking definite form.
But you are of definite form, and you
are needed in the world, no matter

how much you tell yourself that you
are not. Welcome back from your journey.
You have much to share as you land

feet first, wobbling a bit, then finding
your balance, setting off with one step,
then another, and another,

into whatever glorious surprise awaits.

We, too, are made of wonders, of great
and ordinary loves…
— Ada Limón, from “In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa”

We catalog the great loves,
tucking them into the heartspace,
hoping they never disappear,
even when those we love have.

We sigh over the long-ago romance,
the ones who got away—or didn’t
and maybe should have—the adored
elder, the long-gone best friend,

the beloved pets. But we seldom
think to record the ordinary loves—
the favorite ice cream, the moment
in spring when bare trees leaf out

in exuberance, the discovery of
a bug whose name we do not know
perched on the crimson geranium,
the satisfaction as we sip our tea

with a dear one. The thousand bits
of everydayness that swing by us
every day, ones we don’t record
in words or images, because we

can’t archive them all. Can we?
Brief snippets of love, tiny in
magnitude when they occur, but
later they morph into marvelous.

Like the light streaming through
the dirty window of this room,
just now, on us, right here, together.
Let us tuck this smidgen of love

into our catalog of the ordinary,
which, someday, when we open
this compendium of astonishment,
will leap out at us as nothing

short of extraordinary.

Taking the hands of someone you love…
—Robert Bly

I had a much older friend years ago,
who, when she got excited,
when she wanted to make a point,

she’d grab my hands—
not just my fingers, but grasp
my whole hands firmly in hers—

look into my eyes and say
what she needed to say.
But, so startled by the feeling

of my hands so intimately
embraced by another’s—
not a lover’s twining of

fingers pressed against
panting sheets—all I could
register was the warmth

of her palms wrapped
around the bony protrusions
of my knuckles, transmitting

a tenderness, an intensity
of feeling, an urgent sense
of pay attention, and I did—

if not to her words, then
to her small hands that
somehow enveloped mine,

that I feel right now, this
instant, all these years after
she let go, drifting into

mystery, where I find her
still.

Alone on my evening walk,
images start to stack up
like pebbles,

words fall into the pile, too,
prompting a wish for
pen and paper, because

the old hard drive in my head
is full and can’t snag what’s
running through it,

so I pull out the phone from
my pocket and speak into it,
recording my murmured words,

pausing my steps to add and fix,
the poemcoming like water,
like a susurrus of breeze

through leaves, like the ooo-ooo
of a great horned owl echoing,
then disappearing,

into the oncoming night.

Life is just a chair of bowlies.
—Mary Engelbreit

June ripe, the chair of bowlies,
gleaming their shiny faces at you,

some still paired at the tops
of their slender stems—

suddenly, they’re everywhere,
sweet cherries on sale, great price,

ones you longed for over winter,
will wish for all too soon. Consider

the perfection of a single sphere
before it makes its way to the mouth,

admire its simple circumference,
savor its smooth generosity on

the tongue, cherish the memory of
a pie crafted by the hands of one

who loved you, or fruit plucked
from a big-hearted tree, crimson

orbs plump in their bowlies,
this abundant season of warmth

as juicy and bright
as summer should be.

for RDS

Now that I’ve turned in
forms to enroll in Medicare
and received the little red
and blue card with my
official number,

and I’m 54 days from my
65th birthday, happily retired
from the day job for two years,

and I worked out today with
the exercise queen for older gals
and yesterday with my almost
92-year-old mother at the women’s
gym place with purple machines
amid a distinctly not-young bunch,

and the teenager at the sandwich
place, without asking, automatically
applied a senior discount to my lunch
(it’s the gray hair, right?)—

Does this make me old?

If so, fine. I happily accept the old
fart discount, and nod sagely with
elder wisdom when younger folks
call me “ma’am.’

If not, how will I know when
I’m officially an old lady?

Oh, right—I’m your OL, as you’re
fond of saying, a phrase of endearment
you’ve teased this ardent feminist
with for years, as if you were a crusty
hippie or biker dude ready to head out
on his Harley, his OL behind him
on the thundering steed.

Give me the eagle-studded leather
jacket, shiny black helmet with
retractable sun shield, and
let us roar onto the open road—

or whatever adventures await
two, yes, oldsters, in a Honda Civic
overfilled with extra pillows and too
many snacks and comfy shoes that
carry us, upright and striding into
the world for as long as we possibly
can—

amene.

Not a compliment, certainly not
when delivered by sneering boys
walking past me, tucked into
a shaded playground corner,
absorbed in that moment’s book,
the two of us safely away from
flung balls and kids’ hubbub—

a word they wouldn’t have known
if a teacher hadn’t used it about me,
the bookworm chomping through pages,
digesting the sustenance of words,
wrapping myself in a cocoon
of my own making, storing up
fuel for a lifetime,

with no idea that I’d one day
shine when I emerged,
unfurling my writerly wings,
flapping them gently as they dried
in the sun, then—surprise!—
lifting my new self into mere air,
having no idea where all
those words would take me.

for Lucy Bunch, with gratitude

They say
it is good to go back
to the beginning,

when we didn’t know
what we didn’t know,
to wear the snug shoes

of one just starting
to walk the path.
And so, even at this

late date, we tackle
the novel challenge,
dance the unfamiliar

dance, skip along
a path we’ve perhaps
walked before.

But now we come
to it from a new
perspective,

offering our
novice selves
as students,

ready for the try,
the stumble
through unfamiliar

terrain, maybe find
a fresh learning,
guided by a new

mentor whispering
suggestions in our
once-again tender

ears—dig in, try it
this way, or maybe
that.

Play.
Discover.
Experiment.

There you go,
my dear; now
keep going.