Güd wrtr

for Sue Lester, tidepool buddy

At low tide
bejeweled anemone appear,
nestle like olive green breasts
between slick black rocks,
tentacles tucked in tight,

the ample girls showing off their
seabling—lacy coralline algae,
once pink, now bleached white,
random shell bits, washed
rainbows of abalone, limpets like
tiny volcanos, cobalt mussel pieces—
artfully assembled mosaics
decorating many sizes of fullness.

We think of some we know who’ve
lost one or more, some who’ve
decorated themselves with loving
ink in place of what was taken.

We step carefully, bend to admire an
anemone sporting a stylish turban shell
jauntily perched on one side.

We marvel at the pale crab
claw centered over its mouth,
just where, on some of us,
a nipple might have once been,
an extra flourish of adornment,

a touch of originality bestowed
by chance, swirling in on the next
tide, to land gracefully in just
the right spot.

She has washed ashore with dozens of her
sea sisters, moon jellies with translucent
bell bodies, tumbled with feathery kelp,
along with blue-rimmed, tentacled disks
sporting clear sails, hundreds of
by-the-wind sailors.

Velella velella, the cosmopolitan, free-floating
seafarers, sail across the ocean’s surface,
while Aurelia labiata pulse beneath,
complex blobs of jelly that head for shore
near the ends of their lives.

Offering no resistance to tidal currents,
flood tides beach them, which is where we
find them on the first evening of our visit
to the north coast, Aurelia and the Velellas—
the nautical girls and their sailor boy
backup band.

We pick them up off the sand, set them
on our palms, these mariners that, once
under sail, have no way to navigate, that
find themselves at the mercy of the winds.

We prop the moon jellies on our upraised
fingers, study them in the light, marvel at
their gelatinous bodies, now minus tentacles,
all of these stranded marine invertebrates
having seen better days at sea.

We imagine them in their rock star prime,
prolific old salts that delivered only the mildest
of stings. We walk with reverence through
their sandy graveyard, think of them
in their rowdy youth—the sailors and
the jellies, oh, the music they must
have made—and wish them
a fond farewell.

As the first wildflowers fade,
as early grasses yellow,
as summer’s beginning approaches,

the morning offers a near-perfect breeze
as I meet an out-of-town friend for breakfast,
as he has just delivered another friend to my city

for outpatient surgery to help her see.
He and I talk about how good it is to be seen,
as he likes to say.

How we long for those we can no longer see,
how they show up for us in the most ordinary ways
like last night, standing with these two friends,

saying goodbye, looking high in the sky at
the waxing quarter moon, Venus nestled nearby.
“There she is!” he said of his departed beloved

with whom he fell in love under such a moon.
There they all are in the stars, the ones
overhead, the ones embedded in our cells,

we who are, after all, made of starstuff,
our guiding lights never leaving us high and dry,
leading us home, fixed points on our compass.

May it always be so.

•••

For Ron. For Sue. For their departed beloveds.

We call this Heebie-Jeebie Day,
the day before we leave on a trip.
He likes to say, “It’s easy—just
throw things into the car. Not like
we’re getting on a plane,” which
requires more compression of stuff,
of the too-much gear I tend to bring.

But heading for the coast, I never
know (despite weather predictions)
whether I’ll need the warm pullover
and scarf and jacket or lightweight
pants and T-shirts. We linger at
the doorstep to summer, and the
Northern California coast can plunge
into a month of fog, or blaze with
sunshine and tiny purple iris
sprouting in every meadow.

We never know. Which is why
packing for the journey is difficult,
why I’ve amassed too much stuff
in this lucky, lovely life, why I
labor now to divest myself
of much of the stuff—the rest
of my life’s work.

Now I unpack, closet by closet,
room by room, pile by pile
of accumulated paper.
Unhanger the professorial outfits,
box the unremarkable books,
shred, trash, scrap, eliminate,
jettison, dispose of. Adios. Aloha.

This is the time of shedding.

Right after I pack a bag or four
for the forthcoming sojourn,
this pilgrim’s progress to the sea,
remind myself to resist the temptation,
as my feet traverse the Bluff Top trail
and pummeled quartz sand, to pocket
smooth stones and bits of shells,
to fill my pockets with tiny treasures
of this fleeting world.

This breath, the rise and fall of belly and chest,
this eyeblink, the refocus, then another,
this swallow, the contraction of throat, then release,

a wandering in, a presence warming the back
of my neck, wondering which of you is flying in
this moment, in the next, the companion spirits

arriving en masse like swallows circling, landing,
ruffling feathers to settle on a for-now-just-right branch
among new leaves, this moment of starting over in

every breath and eyeblink, the feather that floats
groundward, which I retrieve with thanks, with this
breath, this rise and fall, this going on.

Years of historic drought that
left the lake I think of as mine
like a great sandbox with a
river running through it

mean that I’m surprised,
though I’ve been keeping an
eye on it since January,
to see Folsom nearly filled

to the brim, water covering
Granite Bay point till only
some of the mica-flecked rocks’
rounded backs remain dry

in spring sunshine. Today I
am not the only one admiring
the vastness of a full lake.
At the water’s edge stands

a young woman named Jess
and her yellow lab Olly, his gaze
fixed on the B-A-L-L lodged in
its launcher in his person’s hand.

And when she aims it into
the full bowl of royal blue, in he
goes, splashing like a little kid
who’s just discovered a puddle

and bounds out with his prize.
He heads for me, all bright eyes
and wagging tail, droplets popping
off him like rhinestones, dropping

the B-A-L-L at my feet. Who can
ignore such an enthusiastic
invitation? Though my throw
is far from graceful—or far,

for that matter—Olly does not
mind, swimming out to retrieve
and return, again and again, as
Jess and I get acquainted, while

her sweet older dog rests on
the sand, as we humans marvel
at the miracle of All That Water
with more to come—

one of us celebrating
the abundance with another
plunge, a happy shake-shake,
with another round of fetch.

for Mom

Chonk cat, this dude, ginormous paws,
looks like our first kitty, Fluffy, also
black & white but a hulk of a cat,
my mother’s trusty companion.

Monster fluff, the Maine coons, and
Maxi is getting used to my weekly
appearances in the house where I
grew up that is clearly now his.

He is shy with me and runs if I
stand too close. But if I sit with
him on the living room floor at
a respectful distance, quietly, give

him a little time to remember that
I’m the Pat Lady, ready with fingers
to scritch both sides of his bushy face,
deliver some kitty massage to his

shoulder blades, he winds around
me like a fleecy lasso, pulling me tight
to his big guy heart. The woman who
taught my sister and me to raise

kittens and take in cats needing
homes—she’s got herself a goliath
of a keeper, who sits on her lap,
who leaps onto her legs as she sleeps,

his significant poundage weighing
her down until she moves. Then
he leaps off, only to return,
faithful fellow that he is, her

furry protector whom she adores,
who is equally devoted to her,
and, I have to admit, I’m rather
smitten with this colossal kitten, too.

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.
—Norman Maclean, “A River Runs Through It”

Let him be
standing just like that,
legs apart in the stream,
one hand on the rod,
the other pulling the fly line
toward him, red filament pooling
in a circle atop the swirls
of water at his knees.

Let him be
there when the chinook
are heading upstream,
when they are ripe with eggs,
when they might be hungry
for the fly.

Let him be
the young man in waders
wearing a dark beard with
reddish glints in sunlight,
his calm hands unhurried
as he waves the wand
over his head in a graceful
arc between 10 and 2,
deftly setting leader and fly
atop water on its busy way
to the sea.

Let him be
aware of salmon
swimming toward him
as the river runs by him.

Let him be
aware of me as I stand
dry-footed on shore,
watching. Let him cast
me a fond smile as I wish
him happy birthday,
many returns of forever.

Let him know
that I’m soon to turn
sixty-five, though
he did not. Now
he is ageless,
my companion
spirit.

Let me turn
and walk away
whispering,
thank you,
and once again,
goodbye.

Let him know.
Let him be.
Let him.

On the 71st anniversary of the birth of my late husband,
Clifford Ernest Polland, May 21, 1952–March 19, 2001

You can listen to Jan read this poem here.

So much right now, on every corner, the blocks
in between, so much you’d think that it’s chased away
the sad, the blues, that no one can possibly die when
rock star flowers show off on their spring stage.

But no, we look up into the wild blue yonder, inhale
clear skies as pollen rains on the cars and some of it
sneaks up our noses. We plant the herb garden and
hope, despite knowing that we all have expiration

dates. Some of them arrive for those we know
on these breezy days, as we tuck seedlings into warm
earth beds, the cycle we’d rather forget of endings
arriving amid new life. It is our way to hope,

the happenstance of four-leaf clovers a one-in-
5,000 chance for luck, for love, for good fortune.
Here’s the thing: Should you find that four-leafletted
clover, keep looking. It’s likely to produce

more quartered offspring nearby. Look beyond
the green to polished stones gleaming, morning glories
climbing, to mountain-peak spring in a whirlpool
of wild. Claim the color, gather it, hold it close

to your sturdy heart. Then scatter every hue like
poppy seeds, with no idea if any will morph into
slender stems with petals the color of fresh lava.
Doesn’t matter. Share all the color you can,

even the humdrum—
porcelain, sagebrush, raven, old barn,
chanterelle, bone.
Glorious, all.

we live in the midst of astonishing mystery,
and in the everydayness, we must remember

to celebrate the miracle of where we find ourselves,
in the most ordinary places—at the car wash,

perhaps—on a hot spring afternoon watching
people vacuum up and wipe down, clean inside

and out what we imagine is ours before we drive
into the not knowing, forgetting, all too quickly,

the marvel of workers’ hands, their sweat and
energy expended momentarily for our benefit,

though ultimately for those they love, ones
they provide for, with their great, compassionate

hearts.