Güd wrtr

As the old saying goes,
Everybody talks about the weather,
but nobody does anything about it.

I am doing something about it.
I am in the car, driving toward the sun,
feeling a little like Icarus, though I doubt

I will get anywhere close to burning up.
After two weeks sucked deep into
valley fog, even the barest rays will do.

It would appear that I am going solo
on this mini adventure, but I know
that I travel with so many angels

and saints on board bringing me their luck,
particularly the companion spirits
who always ride shotgun.

They never argue about who gets the seat
next to me, and, in fact, don’t need to sit
at all, disembodied as they are.

But I think of them as a collective,
their voices and faces cutting through
the insistent fog. And when, heading east

toward the mountains, just before
Shingle Springs, the shroud begins to
rise and dissolve, and blue sky appears,

a cheer goes round: There it is!
As if witnessing a miracle, which it
kind of is. The singers among us break

into a chorus of here comes the sun
(George, I hear you in there, too—
you can’t resist, can you?),

and everything heavy lifts like
the dissipating gray that vanishes.
Because it does seem like years

since it’s been here, and we all
doo-doo-doo-doo our way into
the cute mountain town where

I park and walk and take photos
of my own shadow, just because
I can, trying not to think of

the moment, not long from now,
when I must descend into
the underworld again.

But this time, carrying so much
light in my little backpack.
So. Much. Light.

•••

(With thanks to singer/songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter for her evocative line, “saint[s] on board bringing me their luck” from her lovely song “Between Here and Gone.” And equally hearty gratitude to the late, great George Harrison for “Here Comes the Sun,” which, if he’d written nothing else, would have been more than enough. It is, to this day, the most digitally streamed Beatles song ever.)

Yes, it arrives every winter.
And can, as it is doing now, hang around
for weeks. So I, a native of the long, slender
Golden State, who has spent most of my life
in the northern part of the great Central Valley,
should be well accustomed to this.

But I am a summer baby, a Leo
comforted by warmth and bright light,
so all this gray and cold do nothing for me.
The half dozen of you who love this stupid
weather mystify me, but I like you anyway.

Little cat feet, my Great Aunt Fanny.
Carl Sandburg did not know tule fog.

So, in the midst of a gray day of errands,
I sit in a parking lot and recall sun flooding
this same spot, where in July I often open
the car door into fierce heat that makes
many people—including you fog lovers—
wish for a day like today.

Putting a lighter spin on persistent tule fog,
I know that the sun is lurking behind it,
even if this high-pressure ridge is not allowing
our closest star to come out and play.

Though I know the answer, I search
weather apps to see how far I need to drive
to climb from under this low-hanging cloud.
About an hour, up one freeway or the other,
out of this foggy fishbowl into the foothills.

Tempted, so tempted. Take the groceries
home, grab shades and sunblock and drive,
baby. Toss the haftas to the nonexistent wind
(come on, wind!), to the nowhere-to-be-seen rain,
(come on, rain!) as I plot a solo road trip
on a going-to-the-sun road that will
(I pray to the weather gods) brighten
with every mile.

•••

You can read Carl Sandburg’s excellent six-line poem, “Fog,” here.

Dearest Miss D.,
I hope that you have a
well-deserved place
in the balcony where you

can look down upon
scads of us mere mortals
who hold your words
in the highest esteem,

shy as you were about
publishing in your day.
I have fat books of
your poems and letters,

which you likely would
have hated, seeing as
how you wanted them
destroyed. But Emily

—if I may be so bold—
195 years after your
birth, we revere
your name much as

we do Shakespeare’s
or Miss Austen’s or even
the Beatles, some of
whose lyrics I think

you might like. That
blackbird singing in
the dead of night is
one fine bit of poetry—

an example of hope
is a thing with feathers,
if I’ve ever heard one,
or a bird that came down

the walk. And as we dwell
in possibility, we’re still
wondering, as you did,
what is so special

about the buzz of a fly?
If you’ve figured that out,
having long since joined
the ranks of the gods

and goddesses of all things
wise and wonderful,
please send us a sign,
won’t you?

•••

(In memory of Emily Dickinson, Dec. 10, 1830–May 15, 1886)

Every year, as this tree outside the
science building on the university
campus I still think of as mine

releases its gold bounty, I make
a mini pilgrimage to stand beneath it
and wonder who comes with what

implement and makes perfect circles
around the ginkgo’s strong center, turning
the leavings into leafy sculpture.

Every hour more little fans flutter
and join their grounded brethren,
gradually obscuring the pattern

that I see today has spokes radiating
around the circles—an ode to the sun
that has been a stranger for a good

two weeks? Or is it merely the fancy
of the one I imagine who applies
the rake and those who resist

collecting the fallen? Perhaps
they do so in silent acknowledgment
of the hard work of this living,

breathing being, who, I suspect,
has no idea how stunning
it is, who, like so many,

humbly does what it does, with
no expectation of adulation
or applause.

This time last year, I found myself
caring for two aging females
both literally on their last legs,
one with four furry ones,
the other a two-legged one
who hadn’t had to shave
her smooth legs for years.

This year as the sun sets earlier and
earlier, inching toward the shortest day,
I think back a dozen months ago,
when the two-legged one drifted
into mystery in the house
where she raised us.

I recall the many dusky drives
on my way to sit the overnight shift.
Other nights my sister was on duty
as I stayed home with the skinny kitty
who, as it turned out, outlived
our mother by a few months.

And I learned again the lessons that
only the dying can teach about patience
and fortitude with one who was never
easy, about sitting a vigil, ready to do
the smallest of things for beloveds
nearing the ends of long lifetimes.

Almost a year later I drive the same
route on a cold December night for
a happier reason—a holiday concert—
and gratitude infuses me like swelling
chords, a perennial hallelujah.

Dying, it turns out, is some of the hardest
work we ever do, and those who choose
to make the journey with ones on their way
undertake some of their most challenging
soul work, too.

Sometimes it feels like not enough,
that we can do so little, so imperfectly,
but it turns out to be everything that
was needed at the time,

just as those two- and four-footed
loved ones did for us
for years and years and years.

•••

(In memory of Poki cat and my mother, Darlene Haag)

They make you special art and leave it
where you’ll find it, fully expecting you
to use it for the purpose for which
it was originally intended.

As if you’d ruin such heartfelt sentiment.
As if you don’t go looking for another roll.
As if you don’t take a photo guaranteed
to make you laugh

every time you come upon it.

We might’a thought:

Look at the cute old people
taking their own photo
next to a trough of fire.

It must be winter—they’re
all bundled, though the man
is wearing an aloha shirt
under his jacket. Do you
suppose he likes Hawaii?

And the lady is wearing
a pink scarf with what
looks like leaves on it.
I wonder what that
says about her?

They have such
friendly smiles and
the kind of eyes that
smile, too, behind
their glasses.

I wonder what their
story is. Do you suppose
they’re a couple who
have been together
long enough to watch
each other’s hair
turn white?

Will we look like
them someday?
Will we be as happy
as these two look
together?

Oh, I hope so.
I sure hope so.

•••

For Dickie on the 36th anniversary of the day he declared his love for me, and for the 30-something years we’ve been each other’s best person/main squeeze/partner guy & gal. I’m beyond gratitudinous for every minute of it.

Sure, easy go, too,
but after all these years
of having words flutter by

and, when possible,
pinning them down—
or at least borrowing

them to affix temporarily
to a page—I have come
to see them for the gift

they are, not to think
of it as cheating or luck.
Because I’m just

renting them, really.
They’re no more mine
than anyone else’s.

If I like, I get to shape
them into the mosaic
of the moment.

And when I stand
back to look at them,
nod at the not-badness

of the assemblage,
the little flitters will
rise again and take off

to be of service to
another who fancies
themselves a creator.

When, really, we know
in our little hearts
how fortunate we are

that the words or images
or colors or ideas
popped by for a visit,

and we thought to
borrow them for this
sweet, fleeting moment.

A day like this one—
afterdayafterdayafterday
of gray skies, low-hanging
tule fog, stupid fog, not
pretty, wispy, mystical,
moody San Francisco fog—

when the sun makes a
ta da! appearance, though,
of course, it’s been making
its daily march across the sky
while we hunkered down
under the stupid cold fog—

you just want to fly through
the blue splashed overhead
as if some overenthusiastic
art goddess purposely spilled
the paint bucket just to
dazzle you,

and you find your wings,
the ones that have apparently
been tucked between your
shoulder blades all your life,
and, shaking them out
damply,

you stretch and shake out
the cricks in your neck, make
a few tentative up-and-downs
with those wings, then start
flapping hard,

and the next thing you know,
you’re lifting, lifting, soaring,
flapping, moving across the blue,
heading for the river, the one
this city was named for,

and you circle the towers of
the bright gold bridge lifting
out of the water like light itself,
and you behold this place
you call home,

wispy fingers of cloud reaching
for the blue, building tops shiny
and arranged with geometric
precision, and you flap and glide,
flap and glide,

not tiring, never wanting to stop,
certain that this day is meant
for you, because it is,
you high-flying soaring beast, you,
it so is.

•••

With thanks to photographer Martin Christian for the stunning photo of downtown Sacramento and Tower Bridge, which inspired this poem.

While you hold it you can’t get lost. …

Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

—William Stafford, from “The Way It Is”

•••

I am the thread, one who keeps you connected to all things.
You can try to release me, but you’re always connected

to all things on this planet, seen and unseen—
especially to the trees and the leaves falling now,

the buds tight inside that, before long, will bring new life.
It is the way of things, and you know this,

even as you despair over the doings of men. Yes,
tragedies occur daily; people suffer and get hurt and die.

You will get old, and, even more difficult, so will those
around you. “Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.”

But the connection with birds and sea and air and wind,
of every living, breathing thing (yes, the rocks, too)

is yours for this time and beyond. I am the thread
that unites every thing, that links you to the All.

I am the divine connection that will never leave—
like the ones falling from trees now,

the ones behind them waiting to be born.

•••

With my deep appreciation to the poetic genius of William Stafford, to his family, particularly to his son Kim Stafford, and to Brian Rohr of the Stafford Challenge for their contributions to the art of poetry and encouragement of poets.