The Southern Delta Aquarids
dance through the heavens,
reaching their peak this year
on the 65th anniversary
of my birth,
breathtaking meteors
streaking the sky at
at 25 miles per second.
A tiny few leave behind
trails of glowing ionized gas
that stick around for a few
seconds after the fireball
has gone,
which makes me long
to be atop a mountain,
watching, whispering
my thanks to the universe
for getting me here, in the dark,
brimming with astonishment,
eager to see what dawn
will bring.
we say to each other, so automatically
when someone asks how we are—
yet if I look into your eyes, even onscreen,
I see exhaustion, despair, frustration,
honest anger, sorrow about this thing that
never should have happened but did,
this life-altering devastation that’s left
you forever changed and, on many days,
without hope. We hide in plain sight to
shield blows real or imagined or from
predators—like the camouflaged giraffe
standing tall on the wooded savannah, or
the great gray owl that blends into the fabric
of a tree. Fine. Admirable. Excellent.
But none of you hides when I ask. One of you
brightens as you talk about the ex-son-in-law
who comes to help, and one of you is excited
to collect your poems into a book, and
another of you remembers your late
husband’s birthday today.
I resolve to not answer “fine”
when someone asks, to say instead,
I’m purple today, thank you very much.
I’m fierce. I’m balmy. I’m sun-sational.
Summer haze converts
the creamy half cup
of moon angling
toward the horizon
into half a lemon slice—
in another month
the coming wildfires
will stain it
blood orange
(after Nikita Gill)
You are still the 8-year-old girl who
brightens at unexpected kindnesses—
the boy on the playground at recess
who offers his sweater after he leans
toward your small shell of an ear
to whisper that you have a spot on
the back of your dress, that maybe
you’d like to tie his sweater around
your waist to hide the whatever-it-is
you sat in or—oh, no!—came out of you.
Blushing, you accept, tie the cardigan’s
arms around you like a hug as he lopes
like a young deer toward the grassy field
to play catch with the other boys.
You have carried that particular kindness
with you for more than a half century,
the memory of his ruffled blond hair and
black-rimmed glasses, his name—Tom—
a boy who died much too young but
whose generosity lives in you,
grateful you.
two states south toward home,
solo this time, I anchor myself
to the window of the flying
capsule with wings, lean my
head against the too-hot
window, fascinated all over
again—as I was when I first
flew as a child—by creamy
columns of clouds beneath me
fluffing thousands of feet tall.
And I wonder again if clouds truly
take on three-dimensional shapes,
or is that an illusion I recall,
really not knowing clouds at all?
And then the song’s in my head,
so I hum as, 30,000 feet below,
squiggles of water flash like silver
ribbons over the mirage of earth,
as gingham checks of cropland grow.
And yes, the brilliantly white
cumulus congestus towers might
well contain thunder, but those
ice cream castles in the air still
and always from up here on high
look good enough to eat.
And what is more generous than a window?
—Pat Schneider, from “The Patience of Ordinary Things”
(for Terri and Al Wolf)
You, dear friends,
share your windows with so many,
the views through the pines
to the cobalt canal beyond
so luscious you can scoop them
into waiting mouths eager
to savor such sweetness.
We thank you for your gracious
hearts, for bringing us to your
place of refuge, prompting long,
full breaths and equally slow
exhales as our bones and souls
unhinge.
You, generous as a window,
us, so fortunate to have
such friends in you.
•••
With thanks to Terri and Al Wolf for their hospitality and graciousness over the past 10 days as their guest at their lovely forest home in Port Ludlow, Washington.
•••
Or maybe he’s just lonesome
for his people, and since I’m
the lone human in the house,
half reclining, laptop on lap,
he sidles up alongside me
and places, with surprising
delicacy for a ginormous cat,
a paw the size of an egg
on my chest. He drapes
himself from collarbone
to knees, his big face level
with mine, staring into
my eyes with the kind
of adoration I used to wish
for from some boyfriends.
I pat the big cuddlebug,
who actually sighs
and flops on his side
to nestle in the crook
of my right arm,
anchoring me with
15 pounds of feline
affection. So I sigh, too,
and give in, because
who am I to resist big
love when it shows up,
four-footed and purring
like soft rolling thunder?
•••
(for Terri and Al Wolf)
It is as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
—Billy Collins, former U.S. Poet Laureate, from “Forgetfulness”
•••
He is not considered hip, out of fashion to many
fans of younger, edgier poets, but this octogenarian
rockstar poet captivated my younger self
with the poem I chose to commit to my own
forgetful heart this week and recite before
a class taught by another major-league poet.
At different points in my teaching career
I almost had this one blasted into memory,
but it, like so much of my brain power,
retired before I did to that little fishing village
where there are no phones. Or nowadays,
to extend the metaphor, weak cell service.
Ten of us, including the major-league,
excellent-teacher poet—memorized poems,
tucking them into our heartspaces
to, we hope, be able to whip out on
demand at parties, the way people used
to gather around a piano, and someone
would sing, others would join in, sending
a whirl of music into the air. Now I shall
return home to gently prod people to
fix in the mind words by a poet they love,
even the shortest poems like the one about
the plums by good old what’s-his-name,
to declaim—or even sing, as one of us
in class did—someone else’s words
that move us, and, with luck, land
favorably on someone else around
the piano, who just might be inspired
to master their own rendition.
•••
You can listen to Billy Collins recite “Forgetfulness” here.
(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.
Güd wrtr 