Güd wrtr

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.

for Klaus and Gundi Heinemann

Let us see what the sea
has delivered this day
with a quick walk down
the meadow path to
the beach,

perhaps taking the sandy
trail through the dunes,
past the lemony lupine
tossing fragrance at
us as we pass, enticing
us to stop and sniff,

then dig our heels into
soft sand down hill to stand
where sea meets land
and survey what’s been
washed and tumbled here—

moon jellies, lacy kelp strands,
rubbery bulbs with tails,
limpets and mussels beached
after their journey from
seafloor to shore.

We stand transfixed,
as if our feet have not
found their way here
before, try to fill every
crevice of empty with
wavesound, hoping
to carry it with us,

dripping through
our fingers, to our
inland lives, inhale
the lifesource,

willing it to fill us,
to sustain us,
have faith that
it will return us
to the peace of
this place
one more time.

for Pat Schneider
on the 89th anniversary of her birth

So if I write a poem each day,
that’s one kind of prayer,
which I think you tried to
show me long ago,

writing having become your
spiritual practice, after decades
on your knees, after years of
serving churches and believers,
after you no longer called
yourself Christian, though you
still adored Jesus—

you, pathfinder, waymaker,
you who embraced multitudes.

Near the end you said that writing
was one way the light gets in,
that your hand on the yellow pad
connected you to spirit, that
washing dishes at the kitchen
window, gazing down into
the back yard was a holy act,

as you set out seed for birds
hovering like angels, especially
in winter, as you planted seedlings
when the earth was warm enough
to receive them,

as you sit with me now
as the poems show up unbidden—
or did I ask for them
in some way I can’t recall?

And I feel you, deep in mystery,
smiling as they appear, these
gifts from the divine,
dervishly spinning words
on the page,

as they dance their way      
into breath,
into voice.

Be careful
when you bend
to smell the stalks
of yellow lupine
flourishing on
the sandy path
to the beach

industrious bumbles
are at work here

you are intruding as
they busily hover
seeking the upright
banner with the helpful
spot at its base to direct
pollinators to the
nectar reward

as you inhale
you catch a glimpse of
a black-and-yellow
striped worker
close to your cheek

zeroing in on a
particular floret
the color of
fresh butter

resist the startle

she does not
mind your
presence

just wait
breathe
listen

she will collect
her prize in
her pollen basket
quickly wing
her fuzzy way
to another flower

leaving you
to admire her
gentle industry
in this fleeting
luminous
season

•••

The western bumble bee (of the genus Bombus) was once common in western North America, but increasing temperatures, drought and pesticide use have contributed to a 57% decline in the occurrence of this species in its historical range, according to a 2023 U.S. Geological Survey-led study.