Güd wrtr

I loved you the first time I saw you
And I always will love you, Marie
—Randy Newman, “Marie”

(for Rose)

I can feel the slide into the booth
in a restaurant in a building
no longer there where
my poet friend Marie and I
would sit and eat and talk,

the time she said, a bit shyly,
“I’m in love,” and my eyebrows
lifted, and before I could ask,
she said, “You may know her,”
and my poet friend blushed,
closer than anyone knew
to the end,

but she and her Rose loved
with such fierce sweetness
in the time that was left that
every time she talked about
her Rose, I saw her thinning,
brittle self soften.

And not many years later when
I came to the house to deliver
the first copy of her book of
poems, the two of them sat
together on the sofa, holding
the slender volume with such
reverence,

Marie, who could barely see,
much less read, by then,
Rose and I blinking hard,
before we two realized that
Marie’s final gift to each of us
before she vanished
was us.

And now Rose and I meet for
dinners, friends who talk and laugh
and, without fail, speak of her
at least once—

we always will love you, Marie—

and when we hug goodbye
in the parking lot,
we’re hugging her, too,
grateful for her, thanking her
for the gift.

Chris Thile sings “Marie,” one of my favorite renditions:

It all turns on affection.
—Wendell Berry

For every kindness I extend,
at least three bounce back
like happy red rubber balls,
and if I think to catch them,
what a delight to bounce them

to someone who wasn’t expecting
the surprise of a compliment—
the amazing speed of the young
woman who skillfully and artfully
assembled my poke bowl—or
the donation to a local thrift store
that helps women escape danger,
or the leaves my neighbor regularly
blows off my driveway—

the smallest everyday kindnesses
performed for no other reason
than because we can,
because affection in its tiniest forms
might return to us not only by those
we love but by strangers, too—

friends waiting to happen,
as a dear friend sings—

because I recently read that kind
people have a 44% less chance
of dying early, and, even if we head
into the great mystery sooner than
we or our beloveds would like,

our kindnesses remain in the hearts
of those we touched—long after
we’re gone, only to be extended,
with luck, by others to others,
a fine legacy, indeed.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

—Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself”

In Scrabble, the word
poet
is worth only six points
unlike 10-pointers
Q and Z

Though I understand
that the most commonly
used letters garner
the fewest points,
I object

That letter combination
contains multitudes,
to paraphrase a poet
named Walt

Indeed,
it is the song of myself,
my large poetself,
cobbling together
lettered tiles into words,
setting them on lines,

each effort a voyage
of discovery, a win
for the lucky—
oh, so lucky—
poet

Beauty survives in a world of grief. 
—Deborah Meltvedt

We find ourselves grieving
someone, something most days.

The cherished pet, longtime
companion, gone in an eyeblink.
The dearest wife, who arrived
only recently, enlightening our life
together, dying slowly, leaving
so much beauty in her wake.
The father, brother, uncle, husband,
veterans all, whom we salute
on a cold November day, the fall
pressing hard into winter
in some places, unreasonably
warm in others.

Grief lies cold, but beauty
in all its forms warms us,
even in the fallen leaves,
glorious in their russets,
fawns, cornsilk, tumbleweed,
terra cotta, almond brown,

as we remember, as we mourn,
as we must.

(for Mary and Dani)

I didn’t have any of my own,
yet two of them came today to help—

one a muralist who has nicely
flowered one side of my garage
above actual blooming flowers
and now festooned the back side
with floral wings, and the other
who helped revamp my life as I
learned to teach before a screen
when a sneaky virus made its
way into all our lives, this one who
still helps me declutter,
reorganize—

once again bringing 20-something
voices into this 100-year-old house,
once again bringing their talents
to lighten and brighten my life,

the latest in a series of young people
who sat in classrooms where I taught,
on student publications I advised,
when they learned a thing or two
from this old dog,

now they teach me—a grateful pupil—
who recalls the wisdom of a long gone,
much older friend who smiled fondly
at me when I was these girls’ age, saying,
“Honey, you need to have younger
friends—especially women. They’ll
be there for you when you need them.”

And, by golly, almost four decades
later, she’s right. Look at them—
painting, laughing, reshaping,
making my life better in ways
they can’t yet begin to know
and I so appreciate.

Nov. 9
(for Dickie)

You will think this overly
sentimental, but I miss being
able to stand at the huge
window at the gate where
the gigantic jet has just
pulled up, and,

as person after person
emerges from the jetway,
I search for your head,
the still-there hair I trim
every six weeks or so,
your smile, your eyes
looking for me.

And even though we
are too old and practical
for a running, rom-com
embrace, I know, if I were
still allowed to be there,
watching you return,

that my heart would
gather speed down its
own runway, find the
sweet spot where wheels
lift off into mere air,

taking flight, soaring,
even after all these years,
happy to be in your
airspace once again.

Nov. 8

Tuesdays I rise early for me, pull on
tennies and my Run to Feed the Hungry
T-shirt, and head over to Marilyn’s in River Park
to work out to the oldies, with the oldies,
of whom I am now one.

Shelley brings her turquoise mini speaker
and through the magic of Bluetooth
and iPhone plays upbeat songs
as she works us out on the lawn,
standing or sitting on folding chairs,
singing along now and then.

After a month of Tuesdays I learn
that she’s a professional jazz singer
and vocal coach, not to mention
a slender, upbeat, you-can-do-it
workout queen.

So when Shelley sings with Annie,
Sweet dreams are made of these,
she matches Ms. Lennox’s key,
as we all swing our hips, stretch
our stiff parts, practice tree pose
under a leafy canopy burnished
scarlet and bronze, soon to loosen
and fall—

we oldies a rainbow of autumn colors,
women of hidden depths, far more
than we appear, as each new song begins,
as we walk in place, hoist hand weights,
raising our voices when the chorus comes,

Shake it up, baby (shake it up, baby)
Twist and shout (twist and shout)
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, baby, now
Come on and work it on out.…

Nov. 7

I tuck myself in the car with tea and water,
head east 27.6 miles to Mom’s house
nestled beside a state park and a fine lake,
pick her up between 11 a.m. and noon,
drive her to the acupuncturist, then I
walk the park across the street, circling
five times around the playing field—
once an oak-filled corner on the way
to our elementary school—then she
settles back in the car with directions to
the jeweler, then to her new workout
place with dozens of ginormous machines
and buffed patrons (now that her Curves
has closed),

then to lunch at one of her favorites,
where the peppy server greets her
by name—“Hi, Dorothy!”—and brings
her a glass of sparkling wine, then to
the chiropractor for a quick tune-up,
then, when necessary, to CVS for staples—
Moscato, pistachios, cashews, a birthday card—
then home to take up hiking poles and
slowly walk around the block as the
November day darkens early and drops
at long last begin to spit from the sky,

where, in the long months without rain,
I drag the backyard hose to the potted
plants she forgets to water, the ones
my sister and I tidy up on the patio
around Mother’s Day, the ones sitting
in a cluster with a Chinese fu dog,
a small thunderbird totem that our father
put on wheels, a metal peacock in her
favorite blues and greens, not to mention
a couple of flashy spinny things that
catch the breeze and twirl,

as I stand, hose in hand, looking
at the sloping yard our father cleared
of weeds a lifetime ago, planted grass,
installed a couple of rope swings
on old oaks for city girls who
complained about the lack of sidewalks
for roller skating and bike riding,
sisters who took years—decades, really—
to appreciate the gift of a lake and
oak-strewn paths to wander, to be
grateful for this place, these people—
one of them still here in spirit—
who made us a home.

Nov. 6
(Daylight Saving Time ends)

Like the ride that takes you into the tunnel,
soundless but for water displaced by your small boat,
breath, heartbeat, and if you are lucky,

there’s a hand close by that might take yours,
a reassuring palm press, a reminder
that this is not just a time to be endured

but savored, that the darkness—hello, old friend—
holds you differently but holds you nonetheless
you and your tiny boat, floating, moving

slowly toward the inevitable light.

The way is not in the sky.
The way is in the heart.

—The Buddha

But we look there for it, don’t we?
Necks craned to watch the migrating
geese in their zipper formation,
taking note of how blue the blue is,
the clouds balloon fluffy or scudding
streaks. As we rake the backyard,
we look up at the stately sycamore,
its leaves brittle but not yet fallen,
knowing they won’t all journey
groundward till January, though,
with luck and rain, maybe sooner.

We forget to pause, lean the rake
on the trunk of that venerable elder,
place a hand to chest, to rough bark,
feel life pulsing within. If we close
our eyes, take a deep breath, and another,
and another, the way appears,
the ka-thump of reassurance
that this is how we practice love,
through stillness.

We turn our careful attention
to this simple moment, as we reach
again for the rake, hear the geese
calling overhead, feel the connection
to these leaves, so glorious in spring,
so graceful in death.