Güd wrtr

The coming cold creeps into the house
on dewy feet of cats as they push
through the swinging flap,

arriving with the damp of overnight
sprinkles, leaping onto the bed
to imprint you with the beginning

of seasons when your feet will
never be truly warm, when you will
look for soft places to curl up,

petrichor wafting off fur reminding
you that, oh, there will be so much
more of this. Time to make soup,

brew your favorite tea, and remember,
though you can barely recall them
all winter, that hot days will return,

your lizard self will luxuriate outside,
your hands will plant growing things
in sun-warmed dirt, just as one cat

settles with you now, burrowing
into that space she favors, right
right behind your curled-up knees.

(in memory of Dorothy Hoffner)

She flew out of a plane,
104 years young,

not her first sky rodeo—
she’d made her first jump

at 100—and wanted
to soar earthward again,

which she did, saying,
Let’s go. Let’s go, Geronimo,

diving headfirst, her instructor
tandem’d to her back, executing

a perfect forward roll before
freefalling to earth. She died,

apparently in her sleep, nine days
after her historic jump, not looking

for fame or to set a world record,
which she likely did—just to fly.

She said afterward that she’d
like to ride in a hot air balloon,

which might perhaps be her
next sky journey, rising slowly

in a wicker basket suspended
from a colorful envelope,

ascending with a great
whoosh of fire into

whatever comes next.

•••

(104-year-old Skydiver Dorothy Hoffner died Oct. 9, 2023.
She would have turned 105 on Dec. 17, 2023.)

I watched my mother get airlifted
and zipped into a Mom-sized cocoon
today, which is—trust me—not
the most unusual thing she’s

done in her lifetime’s research
as a holistic health nurse. A
young woman named Chloe
tucked a soft blanket over

my mother, who installed
a nasal cannula for her hour
of pure oxygen. She’s her
own best guinea pig, eager

to try any manner of healing
modalities in her quest to
improve her dimming vision.
Though she’s not a deep-sea

diver with decompression
sickness or a burn patient,
a British study reported that
Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy

also has anti-aging benefits, filling
the blood with enough oxygen
to repair tissues and stimulate
collagen production, which, at 92,

she is all for. All that is to say
that today I saw my mother
smiling up at me through a
window in a long, plastic tube

as, all tucked in, she prepared
for a little snooze—a Mom-
sized caterpillar in a space-age
chrysalis, hoping for radical

transformation. And after
she emerged, walking slowly
toward me, still smiling,
I could see the wings

she has grown, lifting,
ready to carry her butterfly
self wherever she wants
to go.

(for Sue Reynolds)

When your Canadian friend
sends you home with two
plastic bags of mint—

one full of leaves for
steeping, the other
dangling hairy roots

for planting—you
make a pot pf tea
the first night, sipping

in her honour. On
the second day you
take trowel and hose

and foam kneeler
to three different
spots in the garden

and commence with
prayerful planting:
Please let these

newcomers snuggle
into this foreign soil
to make a home, safe

from mint-loving cats
and other critters,
long enough to weather

winter, spread their
roots and grow into
mojito mint that will

remind you of your
green-thumbed thumb
friend a whole continent

away who sent you back
to your land carrying
flourishing bits of hers.

If the day before you leave for a trip
is Heebie-Jeebie Day, the day after
you return—Dick said long ago—with
its weird bumps and false starts, is

Herky-Jerky Day. And, when you
put in a day of online attentiveness
that includes leading a 90-minute
editing session in front of witnesses,

it all adds up to the Tireds by mid-
afternoon. But then the man who
named these bumpy re-entries
offers to take you for Linner,

somewhere between lunch and
dinner, and you agree, even though
you’re dragon, steam issuing from
your nostrils on a surprisingly warm

October day, which, Dick reminds
you, is not unusual in these here
parts, warmer even than oddly
warm Canada, from whence you’ve

just come, and you two drive in
what seems like crazy traffic
(though you know that it’s not)
to find food in your city, which now

seems hugely crowded after eleven
days in rural southern Ontario. So
you land at a place you know well,
you sit and eat and chat, and you

feel yourself coming back into
your life, this homeplace, with
two cats who have missed you
dogging you everywhere.

And you sigh, settling in again,
tossing loads of laundry in the
familiar machines, unfolding
clean sheets with a snap to

watch them float onto the bed
like dreams, tucking in corners
as you have been so kindly tucked
in your travels, and climbing in,

you rest in this space you have
created, with help from others,
once again so thankful for this
lucky, lovely life.

Because the plane doesn’t leave Toronto
until 6 p.m., I have time for a lazy lie-in,
rising to find the cute red teapot cozied

and waiting (your tea is ready, Sue’s
sweet note says every day of my visit),
and, after a shower, one last walk

in the woods beyond the pond. After
last night’s rain sent more leaves
to join their fallen brethren on the path,

I feel my shoes soften into the damp,
notice reds underfoot streaked with
branch bits, maple leaf yellows dirtied.

But I inhale the petrichor that such
welcomed rain brings, the day-after
smell missed for weeks by growing

things here—unusually dry for fall,
though common in my part of this
continent. A night’s precipitation

makes for lovely walking weather
through these woods, dark and deep,
as I remember hiking here yesterday,

following Sue and Whiskey around
the nearly 500 acres they steward,
Whiskey eager to tree a red squirrel

zipping across the leafy carpet. Today,
alone on the path, I bid au revoir to
the pond where otters hunt and

beavers build. Until we meet again,
I whisper to this place, as magical
to me as Walden was for Thoreau,

a sweet bit of peace I will carry
with me to the land of little rain
I call home.

Turn on the live cams—
it’s Fat Bear Week
in Alaska, and I’m all in,

though, honestly, I don’t care
about the competition—
which bear wins. I just want

to spy online at the ursine
eaters with massive jaws
and paws fishing for salmon

on the Brooks River. And since
I likely won’t get to Katmai
National Park to watch them

them live any time soon—
spots on the railing over the river
being harder to snag than tickets

to a Taylor Swift concert,
according to one reporter—
I’m happy to watch one of three

bear cams running day and night.
Even in black and white, before
the sun rises, there’s a big fella

wading as fish jump like meteors
not far from him—but those salmon
are fast and wily. Still, the biggest

bears obviously have technique,
shagging salmon like pitchers
catching fly balls, gaining weight

like sumo wrestlers. Oh, look—
check out the mama teaching by
example her techniques to

two large cubs. And there’s
a grand buddha-shaped bear
sitting up to his waist in

water, meditating on a hunk
of white flesh between his
jaws. This week I’ll pop in to

spy on the bears, oblivious
to their media star status,
though I am impressed

with their bulk and dedication
to their autumnal task:
Catch fish. Eat fish.

Bulk up for winter. Sleep.
Lumber outside into a
sparkling spring. Start again.

•••

You can see the Brooks River bears on the bear cams here. Scroll down a bit to see the live cams of the bears.

You don’t need a blueprint for
life—though many days you’ve
longed for one. You could use
a map, paths neatly indicated
with brightly blinking arrows—
maybe in glittery pink—this way—
and other signs with black x’s—
not this way.

Would it be so much skin
off God’s nose to provide
a literal sign now & then?
Not a bloody burning bush,
but directional indicators—
exit here when it’s time to leave,
or slippery when wet before
oncoming slopes.

Blueprints are for building things
that stay—you’re on your way,
my dear, mapless, yes, but not
without direction.

(for Louise Bierig)

Before she left Canada,
Louise wanted to swim
in Lake Erie one more time
to help fortify her for
the drive home to Media,
Pennsylvania.

I brought my suit, not
expecting to use it to take
my first dip in in a Great Lake,
but I had lake envy after
watching Louise two days
earlier—her swim was lovely,
the water temperature perfect.

She became an online writing
buddy during times of isolation.
I was her teacher; she has
become mine, reminding me
that all I have to do is
tug on the swimsuit, head for
the beach, drop the towel,
and walk slowly into the vast
liquid stretching to the horizon,
feeling ridges of sand underfoot—
no toe-seeking rocks for stubbing.

If it’s too cold, she says, you can
turn back and walk out. But I
keep going, water reaching knees,
then waist, then shoulders,
warming with every step, my
feet bouncing off the shallow
bottom, and there I am, me
and my new friend, bobbing
and chatting, floating face up,
toes skyward.

I turn ny weightless body
to look back toward the long beach
stretching behind me, then
turn again toward the invisible,
opposite shore of this Great Lake,

which I trust is actually
out there—because Louise
says it is—the place where
she grew up, a land I
cannot see, in a country
we both call home.

(for my Amherst Writers & Artists colleagues)

A dozen writers stand on
the Canadian side, where, I’ve
heard, the best views reside,

and that turns out to be true,
the gigantic froth of Horseshoe
Falls thundering as it straddles

the border—an unbroken curtain
2,500 feet wide draining Lake Erie
into Lake Ontario. And we watch,

transfixed by all that water power,
roughly 6 million cubic feet cascading
over the falls every minute, before

finding tables outdoors where,
some distance from the edge,
the mist finds us, dotting our

pages as we write, smudging
newly inked thoughts. The
undercurrent of rumble

makes it hard to hear each
other, but we read aloud,
as we do, and, when one

of us notices a not-uncommon
phenomenon here, she calls,
Rainbow! No one rushes

the railing for photos, though
we all look up, delighted to see
droplets in the atmosphere

breaking midafternoon
sunlight into seven colors.
Not until everyone has read

do we tourist ourselves
to the railing where hundreds
of souls, many of them speaking

languages other than English,
gawk at what rightly should
be the eighth wonder of the world,

awash in rainbows, showing off
all that magnificence to
the assembled humanity—

not least a gray-haired Californian
with misty sunglasses who has
taken 65 years to get to this

place that is the epitome of
awesome, grinning her fool
face off.