Güd wrtr

for Lauren, Gerald and Kyle

I like to think it’s not because
I slipped Kyle some small bits
of beef that his grandpa grilled
in the backyard and the family
ate on the deck under the old oak,

or because I fussed over him
as a good aunt does. Because
the whole family fusses over
this little pudge of a dog—like
his uncle, once upon a time

my little nephew, and others
throwing blue rubber balls again
and again, everyone stooping
low to give him a pat, this happy
guy who adores everyone.

So when Kyle hopped up on
the ottoman where I sat, walking
up my legs, his little Stitch
face grinning at me (as only
French bulldogs can),

I hugged the little fireplug with
the big bat ears, who turned
from the platform of my lap
to look at this little family
of three generations gathered—

with Kyle’s mama due to deliver
the first of the fourth generation
in June—doggie panting, me
thinking on this perfectly ordinary,
wonderfully warm spring day,

not for the first time,
lucky, lucky me.

Earth Day—April 22, 2023

They floated around out there, the Apollo 17
crew in my 14-year-old imagination, snapping
photos on a space-age Polaroid, the device spitting
out a damp image spit from its slotted mouth,

astronaut hands waving it dry in the artificial
atmosphere of a capsule. Actually the first
picture of our whole round planet was shot
on a Hasselblad film camera after the spacecraft

left its parking orbit around Earth to begin
its trajectory to the moon. Three men on the final
lunar mission looked homeward and took
the first global selfie to go viral.

On Christmas Eve 1970, as the rest of us Earthlings
got a peek at the photo dubbed the Blue Marble,
I went to my red Folger’s can full of marbles,
retrieved a swirly blue boulder and peered at it,

visualizing a tiny world inside—one partly
shrouded by cloud rivers, dust plumes,
even a sun reflected in oceans, wondering
about tiny beings going about their lives.

And I, looking on from the outside, holding
that boundless worldview in a cold glass globe
in my palm, somehow knew to cradle it gently,
set it down carefully, not tuck it into a pocket

as I usually did, before I headed out onto
my home planet to crawl up my favorite tree,
notebook and pen in hand, settle in for a spell,
and write about it.

for Lisa Morgan

Folsom Lake, next to Mormon Island Auxiliary Dam

I have come again to the granite boulders
beneath the oak tree on the angled hill
looking down at the lake—this spot
I occupied a few weeks ago—
to see what has changed.

So much. Oaks stretching
their long limbs fully leafed out.
Knee-high grasses, in some places
thigh-high, waving hello,
tousled by the vigorous breeze.
The lake navy blue, furrowed
with chop.

Spring comes and goes always
too quickly.

Lavender twining brodiaea have
almost gone, giving way to a profusion
of purple vetch, their violet heads
hanging on their stalks,
trembling in the wind.

The lake has risen, almost covering
a sea of purple blooming on the shore
below, one small island still above
water, a raft supporting a single tall tree.
If the snow melt arrives as predicted,
the little strip of land will likely vanish.

We all find ourselves underwater
at one time or another, waiting
for the waves to recede.

The sudden rise takes us aback;
we feel as if we are drowning.
We forget about rises and falls,
comings and goings,
beginnings and endings.

And then we remember:

We know how to swim.
We know how to float, how to rest.
We just need to lay our heads back,
let our lungs fill with sweet air
washing over us,
and breathe.

When, in the midst of an online discussion,
someone says the word tree and invites
you to envision that tree—a magnificent tree

with a strong trunk, one with roots reaching
deep into the earth, drawing up what is needed
to grow and live, a tree with a grand,

welcoming presence—you do. Feel the texture
of the bark, the someone says. Notice the rich colors.
Feel the soles of your feet opening to the subtle

energy of the earth. And you see yourself sitting
on a slab of granite under a resplendent tree
you visited a couple of weeks ago, overlooking

the lake where you grew up. And you long,
instantly, to drive to that place, walk up that hill,
sit under that gracious oak, today, this moment,

and let yourself be gradually filled by
its vitality, its generosity as you rest under it.
Right now.

But you cannot get to that tree right now.
Obligations await, must-be-done today stuff
punctuated by the mrawww of the big orange cat

making an entrance, wanting something he
cannot get without you. So you finish the session,
feed the cat and sigh, looking out the back

door window into a gorgeous afternoon.
It is spring, you remember, and the big sycamore
in the back yard, recently trimmed, is leafing

out nicely. It is not the oak by the lake, but
this is the tree you have, right here, right now.
So you open the door, and you and the cat

walk into the day, sunlight winking through
new leaves. And feeling a bit silly, as well as
rather ungrateful to this century-old friend

who has sheltered your house well before
it became yours, you step into the ivy at
its base and put your hands on rough bark.

You close your eyes, inhale, shadowed,
protected by a girth you cannot encircle
with your arms. But you try. You wrap

your arms around the hefty trunk
and smile at yourself, the tree hugger,
the cat watching from his sunspot on

the deck, both of you blinking, all of you
breathing, living into this perfect moment
of grace.

for Rose Varesio on her birthday

Heads bowed, the first roses of the season
hang heavy on strong stems, some as thick
as crayons brushing the spring green grass.

They do not look up when I pass, so I lift
their crimson chins and peer into their deep
centers. If I take them from the back yard

now and vase them in the house, they’ll not
last many more days. But if I leave them,
no one can admire their profusion,

the enthusiasm with which they burst into
being. After such a wet winter, I cannot
feel anything but delight at their presence,

which has nothing to do with me but
everything to do with faith—that life
returns, even when it seems absent,

even at the coldest moments, something
is readying for blossom, preparing to
surprise us with so much exuberant,

bountiful joy.

I sit on the rosy pink potty
in the bathroom my sister and I share,
automatically look to the right,
to the wall above the toilet paper
nestled in its chrome cave,
study the list in my neatest
sixth grade printing taped there,

a carefully constructed table
beginning with the twos—
because the ones are easy,
so are the threes, really.

But from the fours on up,
except for the tens with their
telltale zeros on the ends,
I need help.

So every time I sit here, I gaze
right, trying to memorize
combinations of numbers that
swim before my eyes like midges
rising from a stream, unaware
of hungry trout beneath.

And if I don’t completely absorb
the multiplication tables, others
in this spot certainly have—

my sister, two years younger,
always so much more nimble with
numbers than I,

even our father, who
occasionally emerges,
announcing, “7×8 = 56!”

I try again and again to embed
these equations in my brain—
the math teacher not willing
to accept a poem to make up
for my last disastrous test—
feeling the slithery digits slip
away from me in a way that
words do not.

The numbers escape, even as
I chase them, calling their names,
wondering what I need to do
to make them stop, smile,
chat a bit, to want to become
my friends.

Last year, out of town, I missed
the hanging lavender lanterns
morphing the driveway trellis
from a mess of bare sticks
weaving over under, under over
into the annual leafy bower.

Wisteria envy has seized me
like another seasonal allergy,
so I want to soak up the blossoms
popping out this week in earnest,
fleeting bits of loveliness—within a
couple of weeks, masses of eager
leaves will fill in as warp and weft.

Because I trimmed last season’s
woody bits late this year, I
inadvertently doomed the fragrant
crop to come, and sure enough,
less abundance sends me into
the world seeking that particular
scent, hoping to find cascades
within easy sniffing distance.

Nature’s superstars blindside us,
showy distractions from the fragrant
miracle that blooms over my driveway
each spring, before full-lipped leaves
push through, providing summer shade
before falling in fall.

But for now, and a few more days,
I open the front door and look up,
see my car temporarily tattooed with
the most delicate purple petals.
I inhale deeply to catch a whiff
of what’s left—before the beauty
lets go, dropping petal by petal
into memory, the show over
till next year.

You could’ve said no, but you didn’t
when I asked you to heft that melon,
sagging like an ancient breast
lying in the cold drawer

of the fridge, walk it to the big green
bin on the driveway where leaves
and lawn clippings mingled with
droopy daffodils so bright and

cheerful days earlier, too soon
limp and spent—all the dying things
in one dark, pungent place
filled with the smell of rot. And

because you loved me, because you
knew I’d shudder to open that lid,
you did. Over your shoulder I detected
resignation in the iron twitch

of your cheek as you palmed
the softening fruit, placing your
thumb as gently as you once did
on the laces of a baseball before

you pitched it, avoiding the melon’s
crusty bit, then walking it outside
like a wounded bird in your hands.
From the kitchen window I watched

you approach the bin, pause,
open it with an elbow and execute
an elegant slam dunk. I felt the
plummeting thud as I recalled

all the dead things you’d removed
from our lives—what the cats dragged
in, what died on the lawn, sometimes
intact blue jays fallen off their perch—

and I wondered how you’d toughened,
seemingly untouched by loss after loss,
your heart taking the beating. I recalled
stories of stampedes in your family’s

turkey barns, frantic feathered balls
trying to escape marauding skunks,
many of them failing, you and your
brothers, just boys, tasked with

shooting the intruders, burying
the corpses of young poults—
dumbest things on two feet, you’d
say—my heart hurting for all of you.

You’d been close to death all
your life, while I ran from it.
Until the day I got the call from
a coroner in another county

asking if I was your wife, if I’d come
to the house you lived in alone,
and I did, walking into your
unexpected departure, sitting

with you one last time—me cross-legged
on the floor, cradling your porcelain
foot in my lap, looking at your sagging
face, me cheek to jowl with what

I’d long feared—you, utterly gone,
two strangers outside the front door,
black zippered bag in their hands,
waiting.

I love how forgiving you are, which is good because I have some news.
—from the “Take a Compliment” card set

No, I’m not breaking up with you.
No, no one died. Well, I’m sure someone did, but not anyone we know.
At the moment.
No, I didn’t get fired or quit or crash the car.
I’m outing myself, coming out of the closet. Not that closet.
You may have suspected this: I’ve been poeting in secret for some time now.
Not writing—well, yes, writing—but writing poems.
I know, I know. There’s no money in poetry. No one reads poetry.
Why would I waste my time writing poems that don’t even rhyme?
You’re right, they don’t rhyme. Here, read one.
Yeah, I guess you could say that it’s a story cut into short lines.
But look, it’s gotta good metaphor and some nice images—that one with the bee
helicoptering around the blossoms?
You don’t like that one? That’s OK. You don’t have to.
You don’t have to like any of them. Or read them.
I just want you to accept me as I am. A working poet.
A poet’s gotta poet, and I’ve gotta show it.
Yes, I know that’s a bad rhyme. Really, I do.
Trying for some levity here.
No, that’s not a poetic word. Well, maybe it is.
No, I’m not gonna start wearing puffy-sleeved shirts and quoting Shakespeare.
Well, no more than usual.
Yeah, I understand that this is a lot to take in.
Sure, take all the time you need to think about it.
But it doesn’t change anything, honey.
For a long time you’ve been dating a poet. You just didn’t know it.
Gotta go now, poem’s a comin’.
We’ll talk later, ‘K?

Place moonlight in a bowl.
Sleep beside and
dream of white flowers.

—Sandra Cisneros

Allow that creamy liquid,
truly moonshine, to dream you
into a place you cannot go awake.

Let white flowers cushion you,
ones you can’t always name
but surprise you each spring,

ones that some call weeds,
the exuberance of the season
whispering as you rest:

Call me clover,
Call me yarrow,
Call me wild radish,

not forgetting the tiny
English daisies popping up like
mini sprinklers in the lawn,

along with the perfect puff
of dandelion, the bright faces
of chamomile designed

to lull you into sleep next
to your bowl of moonlight,
blossoming your dreams.

***

—lines from Sandra Cisneros’s poem “Remedy for Social Overexposure”
from “Woman Without Shame” © 2022, Knopf