Güd wrtr

Inside the river there is an unfinishable story
and you are somewhere in it
and it will never end until all ends
—Mary Oliver from “What Can I Say”


Of course, the river’s story never ends,
even if its bed lies dry and stony—
it is river still.

Of course, you are somewhere in it,
sometimes at river’s edge, sometimes
deep in bottom mulch.

And, of course, nothing—not river,
not you—truly ends, even when you
are no longer embodied.

Listen: In that hush of current you are
carried, in riffles and rapids, in the curve
of the placid meander.

Your story is ferried by water, the one you
are still writing, the one that will never
be, blessedly, finished.

you remember treasured liplocks,
moments of sweaty anticipation,
knowing that there is nothing else
but this instant, someone’s butterfly lips
meeting yours in frenzy or tenderness.

And, no matter what follows—recalling
your lips brushing your grandmother’s papery
cheek, the joyful leaping licks of a dog
delighted by your mere existence,
the affectionate peck a friend bestows
upon you or you upon them,

or, if you’re lucky, the routine exchange
of lips on lips with a beloved with whom
you share your life, or a child you adore—

you realize that there is nothing ordinary
in a kiss, the quickest shorthand to a heart,
telegraphing an i-love-you message with
such immediacy, such power, no wonder
these lip salutations can leave you
stunned, breathless, amazed
to find yourself so beloved.

We know that they walk with us
every day—or maybe they flit,

fly, flutter by in the wingéd things
or in winking bits of light.

We feel them more often than
we speak of them, the dearly

departed, because who wants
to hear one more time how

much we miss them? Which
is contradictory, we know,

when they’re here—right
here—whenever we think

of them, little lightning strikes
of recognition that, if we’re

lucky, still prompt a tiny
flutter inside, these

forever beloveds, just
popping in with a quick,

sweet hi.

The former dead guy
resurrected four years ago
eats his favorite crab
sandwich in Bodega Bay,
on his 80th birthday,

then drives us up the coast
on an afternoon so blustery
it knocks us sideways
as we maneuver rugged
steps down to the black
sand of Shell Beach

where we watch wicked
waves explode onto
seastacked rocks, as
fine grains pepper our
otherwise white hair.

On the way back up,
he lurches left, but quickly
regains his balance, his
plumb line swinging back
to vertical.

We pause, take a breath
and turn to look at
the thundering sea in
all its glory doing what
it has for eons, what it
will do long after we are
no longer.

Windswept, we turn
and, mindful of every
precious step, walk
together into the rest
of our lives.

We all want to belong
to someone, something,
sometime,

and the deft eyewink of
the apostrophe affirms
connection:

the girl’s notebook
the girls’ soccer team
the boy’s piano
the boys’ campout

the art of belonging to one
or more than one.

But it’s more than that:
A bit of magic lies in
morphing two words
into one,

forming a contraction
that twines letters
into a new form,
bringing them closer,
like birds on a wire,
giving them a kind
of belonging they’d
never have had
alone.

Without that bit of
punctuational
confetti,

I’d not be me;
you’d not be you,
we who’ve loved
each other into
us.

2/13/23, for Dick Schmidt’s 80th birthday

He long ago dubbed the day
before we leave on a trip
for the rushing, the packing,
the cleaning, the last-minuteness
before departure, when,

if we’re going to board a plane,
the imperative of packing tightly
results in late-night fussing
and too-little sleep.

But, when driving, say, to the coast,
eager to inhale restorative ocean,
I can mash three pillows into
a duffel to prop me up in sleep,

and extra snacks, because you
never know what craving might
hit you late at night,

and if we leave a bit later than
planned, seized by the sudden
need to water the plants on
the porch before we go,

so be it. And once we cross
the rubicon that is the mighty
Sacramento River, we know
that we are on our way to
familiar crab sandwiches
and clam chowder,

but we also know that
surprises await, the kind
found when we let go of
the woulda-coulda-shoulda
and embrace the why not?

When all the heebie-jeebies
evaporate until there’s
just us once again on
a tiny adventure in this
great one that we share.

Been trimming his hair since
it was dark brown, thick, straight,
easy to cut for an amateur like me,

though after all these years,
I suppose I’m a semi-pro, and my
fee has never gone up: a penny

or a kiss, as established by little
boys whose hair I cut as a favor to
their mom (can it be?) 40 years ago.

They offered the penny; I pointed to
my cheek and, blushing, they delivered
sweet pecks I still carry with me.

But this guy—he’s gonna be 80
in a couple of days, and though he
bemoans the appearance of his

sweet scalp, he still rocks thick
white fringe that grows heartily,
which I treasure, especially on a

warm February day when we can
haul the tall chair out to my backyard,
where he can perch and we chat

as I trim, thankful for every hair
on that head, for every cut I can
do, every day we have together,

which I plan to carry with me
for all the rest of mine.
Amene.

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!)