Güd wrtr

(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.

Woman becoming bird,
bird becoming woman?
Does it matter?

Are we not cousins
to crow, crane, hawk,
egret?

Are our arms not growing
feathered, our bones
becoming hollow,

readying for flight?
Have we not felt the wings
we’ve grown, lifting?

Yes, we rise as omens
of good fortune,
of the fruitful hunt,

of humanity’s well-being,
we winged spirits
utterly transformed

into something substantial,
something lighter
than air.

(For Isabel Stenzel Byrnes, who flew today into mystery, with my love
and admiration for her remarkable life.)

(after Kathleen Lynch—and for her, too)

1. Go to the river.
Hunger for the current.
Lean into the water.
Listen.
Inhale the sound
deep into your being.

2. Find the smallest twigs.
Construct a delicate frame,
a basket to contain the tiniest
of hearts and other organs.

3. Fashion fins
(1 for each side plus 1 tail),
2 eyes and 1 wide mouth.
Add a strong desire
for winged insects.

4. Empty your heart
into the silver skin,
the deflated gills.
Breathe into its mouth;
feel the little being
swell in your hands.

5. Wade into the river
up to your calves;
feel this new life flop
in your fingers.
Set it gently in the shallows.

6. Watch it take its first lungfuls
of the water of its ancestors.
Admire the sheen of its scales.
Note the quick flick
of its muscular tail.

7. Think: gone.

•••

(Inspired by—and offered as a prompt to my writing groups—one of my favorite poems, “How to Build an Owl,” by masterful Sacramento poet Kathleen Lynch / http://www.timestenpoets.org/lynch/owl.htm )

one Sunday each month in the loft,
and today, newly turned fourteen,
about to start high school, she

unleashes two new songs with
dense lyric structures, packed with
mature metaphor many older

songwriters lack. She, fresh from
a concert featuring two of her favorite
former-boy-band-now-grownup singers,

arrives glowing about traveling to LA
with her mom for her first live show,
about making a new friend there, and

ooh! they’ve got tickets to another
concert in town in September,
her smile dimpling her cheeks.

I’m again amused and delighted
by her enthusiasm and precocious
creative skills, imagining her onstage

someday, her own kind of singer-
songwriter, this girl poet and fiction
writer blossoming like summer roses

before me—a bit like me at that age
but even better, more capable, more
confident. I’ve got another one

I just wrote last night, she says,
searching her phone for the lyrics
she tapped with her long-nailed

fingertips, words coming to her
so quickly she could hardly get
them down fast enough.

She hands me the phone to read.
Wonderful, I say. Sing it to me.
And she does.

Stroke by stroke, lap by lap,
we move down the lane.

We sit, breathe, thoughts
flitting through like birds.

Step by step our feet meander
or stride or, for some, run.

Pick up the bat, throw the ball,
let fingers press keys, whether

clarinet, flute, typewriter,
keyboard. We practice every day

the routine everydayness,
whether conscious or un- ,

getting in the car, drawing
the seatbelt across the chest,

soaping the flatware or
installing it in the washer,

and, if we are lucky, leaning in
for the day’s closing practice—

kissing someone we love
good night, sleep tight,

may we awaken to practice
living tomorrow.

The tagline on the email grabs me, along with
the first sentence (as a good lead should):

First, it races away unstoppably—
then it seems to stand still.

And I read, my own engine picking up speed,
that our heartbeats can cause the moments

of our lives to drag or fly. And I think,
well, yeah… and I learn that we can’t

consider time in isolation from the body.
Researchers asked people to estimate

which of two sounds or images felt
shorter or longer, and here’s the kicker:

When the heart contracts, time feels shorter;
when the heart relaxes, time seems longer.

So time, indeed, flies when we’re having fun,
or seems endless when we’re bored, these

lives made up of milliseconds that, when
combined into trillions, make up our story.

We are all composed of micro moments, our
hearts ka-thumping in patterns that shape time,

or how we perceive it, which is no surprise
to all of us who’ve wished for more of it

with those we love—to look on that sweet face
even a minute longer, to hold that hand again,

as our fragile, sturdy hearts palpitate,
time pulsing away whether we recognize it

or not.

The oldest of us—
the great-grandma on
her 92nd birthday—

holds the youngest of us—
the great-grandson—
3 weeks old to the very day,

on a perfect July evening under
a sheltering oak older than any of us,

the great aunt taking a turn
in between cuddles with
his mom and grandma,

some of us remembering
previous summer birthdays
on this deck when the youngest
among us played Jenga or
cornhole,

but now we sit or linger
over the one holding Henry,
sleeping mostly, even with
a bottle between his perfect
little lips—

his aunt and uncle, mom and dad,
great aunt and great uncle,
and the matriarch of this little family—

time stopped, or maybe
holding its breath, in this
present of a present moment,
all of us struck by the wonder
of the one newly born,
sleeping soundly, so content,
so beloved.

For Mom on her 92nd birthday

•••

There are always flowers for those who want to see them.
—Henri Matisse

So many times after I pull into your driveway,
walk through the garage and up the three
steps into the house, you’ll announce,

Did you see the azaleas? The bush is loaded!
And it’s true—your yard is once again
a profusion of blossoms, dozens of frilly pink

tutus dancing in the breeze, camellias
drooping like heavy breasts, or geraniums
bursting into petaled rubies. You’ll remind

me to head into the backyard to admire
the sweet roses popping from bushes like
boutonnieres ready for a buttonhole—

so many and so welcome after the winter
that watered this current explosion of floral
enthusiasm lasting into summer. We can’t

help but exclaim, as if we’ve never seen such
abundance leaking from every living thing—
Look at that! and that! and, oh… that!

I learned this from you; I do it, too, in my
own yard, as I walk my neighborhood,
gushing over the loveliness—you who

taught us to gather every bit of beauty
into our hearts and let it bloom in us,
regardless of the season, to praise it

and let it lift us in gratitude.