Güd wrtr

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.

As so often happens
the day after I return home
from vacation, I am dogged
everywhere by cats, who have,
despite excellent care,
missed me.

After a quick trip to the urban
farm to pick up produce, I
return to two tails and eight paws
circling me in the kitchen as if I
have returned with fresh fish.

But no, Poki and Diego seem
content to settle and watch me
tuck English peas and green beans,
creamy-bulbed sweet leeks
and fuzzy apricots into the fridge.

I tip the basket of cherries into
a bowl, pop one into my mouth
as an idea springs. The lavender
violets in their perky pot by the
window and crimson cherries
in their bowl would look nicely
paired on the weathered wood
of the deck, an image that might
lead to a poem.

I pick them up, head outside,
Diego follows, and—after a bit
of positioning and only one
shot—inserts himself for a pat.
I deliver a scritch atop his skull
ridge and under chin, attempt
a return to the cherries, admire
the violets, picture-perfect in
this moment,

and again, a big orange cat head
eases into the frame, sniffing,
looking up, wandering through.
I try to move the extra element
out of the way, trying to document
what has grown, what is growing,
what is living,

forgetting that he is, too, this
goofy doofus of a feline who
has missed me, who settles near
me in the office when I come in
to write, one who desires only
the essence of me to settle his
big guy self just behind my chair,
his eyes falling shut into a nice
little nap.

•••

Thanks to Soil Born Farms urban agriculture and education project in Rancho Cordova for their good work and yummy produce.

Sweet start to summer,
though it’s not necessarily pink,
this bright disc in the portal
of night easing itself along
the southern horizon,
warm, misty, welcoming.

Open the blinds: Let it spill
its milk on the floor, pool
and soak in, pearly and
gleaming.

Step into that light—
outside, if you can—
and moonbathe a little.

Watch the trees, the roses,
the dewing grass.
the ripening strawberries
soak in the champagne
reflection of our nearest
star.

You, too.
Allow astonishment.
A little more.
There.