Güd wrtr

(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.

(for Cathy Tkach on our
Port Townsend, WA, walk)

Here in the Pacific Northwest
the locals don’t blink at
hooved ones lying on lawns
or walking up the wrong side
of the road by the beach.

But we flatlanders from
California are mesmerized
by these cud-chewing plant
eaters, especially this mama
with her fawn ambling along—

each of us pausing to check
out the other species,
four females heading
the same direction on
an afternoon walk—

two of us keeping watch
on the other pair as they
cross the two-lane road,
all of us pedestrians
stopping traffic before
heading off in the direction
we need to go.

and I am oddly stressed about it,
as though I am back in the sixth grade
with Mrs. Keuter, who never cracked
a smile the whole year, insisting that
we recite in front of the class—a
particular kind of torture.

I wrote poetry. I felt words swimming
through me all the time, but I could not
make them stick in my brain long
enough to spit them back from memory.

And now, a new teacher, a well-known
poet at a writers’ workshop, has
assigned a bunch of grownup poets
to memorize and recite a poem
by the end of the week, and I find
that my brain is less sticky than ever.

Who forgot to install the file cabinet
in my brain full of fresh manila
folders crammed with syllables
so that I might reach in and retrieve
them, easy to recall, any time I wanted?

I could blame my about-to-be
65-year-old gray matter, but I think
that the words have grown used
to slipping downstream through
my left hemisphere like salmon.

If I don’t record them as soon
as they surface, hungry for mayflies,
the wily words fin away, heading
for the sea, joining so many others
in a school of their peers adding
to the great sea of poems

that some can remember
and so many of us cannot.

•••

(Photo: ballyscanlon / Getty Images)

(for Isabel Stenzel Byrnes)

Sitting on a patio overlooking
saltwater and forest, tiny bits
of fluff float toward me,
decorating my shirt with mini
seed pods bound for someplace
they can’t determine.

They literally go where the wind blows.

I idly wonder—cottonwood?
I don’t see any, the source escaping
me until I focus on the precise
direction all this wind-borne fluff
is coming from,

which is when my eyes land on
a tall plant just behind the thriving
sword fern—not individual globes
of dandelion that decorate lawns,
but long-stemmed starbursts
loosened to fly.

I move closer to watch, as if
keeping a close eye on fledglings
hesitating at the edge of a nest,
some already released into
the world.

But all are not ready to fly just yet,
as I suspect you—who wanted
to wring every breath from
your borrowed, ravaged lungs—
were not,

when a whoosh of wind pulled
you loose, sending you soaring
in a direction you could not choose,
your bits of fluff scattered in a
hundred directions,

landing for a moment on so many
who adored you and always will,
drifting by others, with your final,
loving touch.