Güd wrtr

Saw this bumper sticker on a gray
compact heading east on J Street
on a sunny Saturday, my fellow citizens
and I wearing our shades, basking
in the warmth like lizards after enduring
nine atmospheric rivers washing us
cleaner than clean.

Flooding, downed trees—so many
lost sentinels—had sobered us.
But the deluge washed our cars, too
(the ones it didn’t wash away),
and this memo on wheels made me
smile as I drove past it, waving,
calling, “Hi!” to an invisible dog
in the back seat, hoping to catch
a glimpse of a panting tongue
and hot breath decorating a window,
transmitting a sweet canine salutation.

I did not see one, and I realized that
the driver may have been like me—
a former dog companion who never
brought herself to replace the half-pint
retriever whose nails I swear I still
hear some nights clicking down the hall.

It’s simpler this way, I tell myself.
Dogs are like kids; cats are easier.

But for days I looked for them
in the back seats of passing cars,
and, sealed in my four-wheeled,
canine-free transport, I waved
at the dogs, who often rewarded me
with a silent bark and, without fail,
a broad, toothy grin.

I reach for words that float from
trees, from starstuff, from the heavens,
tack them lightly to the page in
imperfect order. Somehow they say
something I need to hear, often
something I thought I didn’t know.

I am looking for the whole of myself,
willing to hold the heaviest things
seemingly banished and buried, while
gazing at the repaired heart whose scars
gleam gold, beautiful in their healing,

remembering our perennial ability
to soar on gossamer wings through
the darkest nights, to rely on
an inexhaustible supply of words,
on images that bring the broken bits
together in transcendent ways,
if we let them.

Keep walking in the shadows.
Study and embrace what lies there,
our vessels stronger for the breaking,
for the restoration, the former shards
outlined with breath, with hints
of the luminous, even when it cannot
be seen—like clouds masking the sun.

When we fly over the canopy
of darkness, we find ourselves awash
in glorious light—radiant, unclouded,
glowing.

There is no time not to love.
—Rainer Maria Rilke

Compare the jagged white line
against the sky to the top
of a freshly iced cake, the distant
mountains clearing the mind
like winter wind.

What you have held tightly,
and swore to always hold,
this is the time to let it go.

The windshield needs cleaning,
you think as you drive east.
Do not mistake this for another
metaphor, though it is that, too.

Keep the snowy peaks in view,
even as the foothills rise to
swallow them. Let them fill you
with breath; allow their immensity
to overtake you.

And when you get to your
destination, let your first exhale
release what needs releasing.
Dismiss everything that is not
love in favor of what is—

pure and cold and clean,
grateful.

(With thanks to Joe Chan for the use of his lovely photo!)

Against the panorama of cloud-free sky,
resident geese honk on their afternoon
commute, a singular scavenger angel

wheeling on the updraft, scanning for a meal.
In the distance I think I hear insects chattering
like so many voices trying to speak at once,

drawing me toward the spontaneous pond—
leftover rainwater in a gully pooling around
craggy oaks and fountains of sticks pointing

skyward with the promise of foliage to come.
I move closer, letting what turns out to be
the cacophony of amorous frogs wash over me,

smiling at the unceasing amphibian symphony,
one deep-voiced bassoon adding a pleasing
counterpoint. Abruptly it stops; the movement

has ended. I look up as a red-tailed hawk swings
a hard curve to land on a lofty oak arm.
Somehow the frogs know. Quiet: Danger is near.

A solo crow calls as it wings by, apparently
unruffled. Momentarily rooted, I study the hawk
studying me, the pond, the potential catch.

With one great flap it ascends and sweeps away.
An unseen maestro gives the signal to begin the next
movement, pianissimo at first, ribbits rising,

various sections adding their accompaniment,
building and blending, as I offer a silent standing
ovation for their timeless harmonic brilliance.

(To listen to the frogsong, click here.)

for Dawn Orosco, kindergarten teacher extraordinaire

I don’ wanna.
—You have to, Janis. You can’t go to kindergarten without knowing how to tie your shoes.
I don’ wanna.
—Look, it’s not that hard. See? You just make a little loop.
(Fumbling)
—Well, more of a loop. Like this. See?
(Lots more fumbling).
—No, like this. Here I’ll help.
I can do it.
—OK. Show me.
(Fumbling)
—Here. Let me help.
Thank you, Mommy.
—You have to learn to do this by yourself, Janis. Your teacher told the parents that she can’t be tying kids’ shoes all day.
I can read!
—Yes, you can, and that’s a wonderful thing. But you have to be able to tie your shoes, too. Keep practicing.
(Tears)
I can write my name!
—And that’s also a wonderful thing, but…
I don’ wanna go to kindergarten.
(Little sister) Mommy! I can tie my shoes.
—OK, Donna, but I’m working with Janis right now.
(Little sister sits down next to big sister, unties, then reties shoes. She is not quite 3.)
See? It’s easy!
(Tears)
I know, Mommy. I’ll go to school with Janis, and I can tie her shoes for her.
(Sigh)
Yeah, Mommy. Donna can come with me. I can read, and she can tie shoes.
(Sigh)
C’mon, Donna, I’ll read you “The Cat in the Hat” again.
And “Red Fish, Blue Fish,” too?
Sure!
Yay! Bye, Mommy!

They give you cookie dough as a bonus at pizza
places nowadays, chocolate chips and dough

lumped into a little plastic tub you take home
and spoon onto cookie sheets you haven’t used

in ages, following the instructions on the label
(375 degrees, 10 to 15 minutes, check ’em in 10)

to the letter—as if you hadn’t made hundreds
of cookies in your younger years, at home,

in college, in your first apartment, later in
your own kitchens, learning through trial and

so many errors that every oven is different,
like roommates, like boyfriends, and time and

temperature certainly vary, so keeping an eye
on them is a good idea, but not too close an eye,

because they need their space to heat up, to bake,
though ignoring them is not good either, since

timing is everything, and speaking of, there’s
the timer beeping, signaling the alchemy of dough

becoming cookie, with luck and proper attention,
so much delicious in so many batches, the chips calling,

We’re done! Come get us! You know you want us!

Make sure to live each day in such a way
that if you were to fall off a hundred-foot cliff
and your life flashed before your eyes,
you don’t die of boredom
but from the hard landing.

—Brother Weeps
thesacredbraid.com

Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?
In the final film of our lives,
we want it all—

the dramatic entrances, the humor,
the scintillating plot with compelling
characters, and, of course, seeing
ourselves in the starring role
as the dashing protagonist.

We do not want the slow pan
over our failures and humiliations,
the bitter exits and deep sadnesses.
(Please, no rehash of the teenage
exploits/less-than-perfect love
affairs/marriages that seemed
so bold, so clever, so romantic
at the time.)

We want uplifting, delightful
with a chuckle or two, before
we hit the end. Which means
we better get to work on filling
in those plot points now,
while we’re still here,
while there’s still time.

Which there is, right?

I live on Earth at present, and I don’t know what I am.
I know that I am not a category. I am not a thing—a noun.
I seem to be a verb, an evolutionary process—
an integral function of the universe.

—R. Buckminster Fuller

Once upon a time
rain, snow, thunder
identified weather phenomena
but were also simple nouns
naming things. Some place,
some time, humans verbed
those nouns, turning them into
action words.

They became things that moved,
had sound and texture and oomph,
the engines of sentences, which,
I used to tell my grammar
students, make sentences go.

Look, I’d say, up to a fifth
of all English verbs arose from
nouns. We name things,
then set them in motion.
Think about:
—color
—love
—peel
—bowl
—fly
—benefit
—comfort
—question

All splendid nouns that, when verbed,
blossom with fresh meaning:
—The fly flew away.
—His kind attempts to comfort her provided great comfort.
—Peel that peel right off that banana.

The older I get, the more I flirt with eternity;
I evolve, become more verb, though
I embrace sturdy nouns, too:
—Yesterday I napped for a quick half hour.
—I’d like to take a longer nap today.

In the great cosmological mystery,
I flow from passive to active
and back again, my life’s sentences
continuously under construction,
still writing my story,

delighted to call myself a tiny
but elemental component of this
ever-expanding universe.

for Lucie

As aware as I am of
the Is-ness—the all that Is
that fills me, the trees, the wingéd
and the footed, the dirt and detritus,
everything—Lucie says that all energy,
all spirit embodied in the universe,
is aware of me, too.

That this feeling of being held,
like floating in warm ocean,
is purposeful, she tells me,
divinely ordered.

Call it God, Lucie says,
the divine, the universe,
whatever you like.

Howard, I tease her,
as in our father, Howard,
in heaven.

She chuckles at that, my
spiritual master beaming in
onscreen from another dimension,
someone I hadn’t known I needed.

The divine, which is love itself,
knows you, loves you—yes,
specifically you, she tells me.
You are of it and it of you.

How could it not return your
admiration during a glorious
afternoon walk, when you pause
to peer closely at the ruffly
red of a fresh camellia? When
you look up and, beholding that
so-blue sky, inhale all that love?

How could all that Is, Lucie asks,
beckoning to you from every
living thing, even the stones,
not know your name?

Tucked under my bed
wearing the fuchsia spread
from Sears lived in the biggest
square box I could find in the garage
collection, not too tall but deep
enough to hold treasures I carried
indoors that grownups thought
should be left outdoors.

Bits of metal that, when picked
up off street or path, thunked
satisfyingly into a palm. I had no idea,
for the most part, of their provenance
or purpose, what mechanical beast
they’d separated from, but there
was something about their shape
or size (had to fit in the box)
that called to me.

I liked the short, fat screws that
looked like little people with hats,
the smooth slimness of washers,
their doughtnut-hole centers
perfect to plug a finger into,
springs that sproinged, and,
if I was really lucky, old keys,
bent and rusty that sent me
spiraling into imagined locks
that would never receive them
again.

My father had a workbench
full of this stuff—it wasn’t as if
we lacked for hardware. He was
perplexed by my junk museum,
tried to persuade me to keep it
in the garage, but I wanted it
under me as I slept, the solidity
of missing items found, treasured,

felt when my hand reached
into a denim pocket, a silent
specimen offering itself to my
imagination, spinning errant
metal into precious nuggets,
brimming with potential.