Güd wrtr

Not the same as in the snazzy swim spa
with Terri, the iPad set up to watch
Coach Stacy put us through our
water aerobics paces,

but I am grateful to those two women
for teaching this old lifeguard/
swim coach/instructor some new
tricks for my solo workout—

not least with water barbells
that offer are-you-kidding-me
underwater resistance, which
is not only arm strengthening

but soul strengthening,
much needed as the aging body
tries to stay in the game,
using it, not losing it,

in the name of fortitude,
for all that is coming at us
so much faster than we
ever imagined.

•••

(for Terri Wolf, my water aerobics workout buddy,
who inspired me to pick up the floaty barbells!)

By mid-August, this is getting old, you guys.
I mean, I’m glad you’re out here blooming
your fool heads off, but to make sure you
don’t expire too soon, I come outside
and squirt you every other day,
sometimes daily when it’s
so ungodly hot we’re
all burning up.

It’s not your fault, of course. I put you here.
I’m responsible for you—at least for half
the year. Come October, I figure you’re
on your own. I’ll move some of you
of you inside or to the front porch
for a little protection over winter,
but you guys in the big pots,
in the ground, your survival
is up to you and the whims
of the garden gods.

Still, I fret in spring when it appears
that some of you have not made it.
I tend to leave even the brownest
of you tucked in the ground, with
the hope for life I can’t yet see.
Now I watch the decay of stalks
brittling in the heat, frown
as the sycamore molts,
throwing off curling
browned leaves like
so many feathers.

But hey, morning glories, you viney,
invasive beasts, you’re still going
strong, forever charming me
with your show-offy purple
skirts just translucent enough
to gleam with fresh gulps of
sunshine all day before
twisting yourselves tight
for the night, then like
parasols you unfurl
under the sun,
earning my
perennial,
slack-jawed
admiration.

(for beloved ducks everywhere,
including mine, whose half-birthday
is today)

We have seen real mallards,
the Duck and I, floating in pools
where I love to swim,

paddling and quacking their
way through turquoise ponds
quite unlike any wild water

in this neck of the woods. But
in the little oval pool where I find
myself one summer night,

a single yellow plastic duck floats.
I paddle over to what appears
to be this permanent resident

with a smiling bill and upend it:
Property of Pool #3, it says in neat
black Sharpie. Please do not take!

You must be the greeter duck,
I tell it, setting it back to bob
on the surface I have disturbed

with my own bobbing and
breast-stroking. The duck stares
straight ahead, as they do,

resumes its place in the deep end,
where it floats day and nigh
in this land where the Duck—

long ago dubbed by his then-young
niece and nephew—lives. I wonder
if the neighborhood mallards

swoop in for visits now and again,
if they acknowledge this imposter,
or if, as the Duck and I do, take it

as a tribute to their high-flying
selves from a wanna-be waterfowl
with a friendly countenance

welcoming all of us,
the feathered and the un-,
who drop by for a dip.

It’s only in the after that I see it:
How I should’ve slowed down,
stopped, actually,

that time, a hundred times,
and, fitting my small hand into
your larger one, just sat in the quiet

of the back yard, as I do now,
under the big sycamore tree
that’s still here,

where you amble over as casually
as the dog once did, putting his
head on my thigh for a pat.

Don’t we all do this as we miss
the beloveds, the two-footed
and the four-footed?

Isn’t this when they reappear
as if we summoned them,
which, of course, we do,

as your hand squeezes mine
one more time?

Not a sunrise gal,
but when I’m in an east-facing
place with a view of

a. horizon
b. water
c. mountains

or some combination thereof,
the lightening of sky into
a gently feathered gray-blue

over a band of soft tangerine will
often propel me to the vertical.
And, before undertaking

any other half-asleep business,
I make my way to a window
to gently push shades aside

to see what the day might be
made of. Those who do this
on the regular might chuckle

at my open-mouthed awe
over the purity of a moment
magnified by capital N nature.

But I, night-hunting poet that I am,
generally miss the day’s first
rays because I have lingered late

on high branches, scanning
below for the just-right rhythm,
the scurrying words that

prompt takeoff into the dark,
my vision sharpened, gliding
until my talons can snatch

the wily verbs, the soft adjectives
and sturdy nouns to consume
before sleep. Before I am

awakened by blossoming light
that brings me half-lidded
to watch the impending arrival

of our nearest star in its full glory,
when I get to behold the cascade
of land meeting sea,

of mountains peaking into
an always glorious,
don’t-wanna-miss-this,

never-gonna-have-this-precise-
moment-again
dawn.

•••

(Thanks again for your generous hosting, Terri and Al!)

(And other names for the August full moon)

To many, it’s the Sturgeon moon named
for the great ancient fish that shines
deep-water wisdom and endurance

upon us earthlings. It reminds us
that we live through sacred cycles,
hold the changes. We, too, know how

to swim upstream against the current.
Under this moon, say the first peoples
of this land, we are both star and sky.

We must stand in our own light,
remembering that we are part
of a larger constellation of truth.

The Cree call the August moon
Young Ducks Begin to Fly, while to
the Lakota it is the Moon of the Ripening.

Cherries Turn Black, so say the Sioux,
and Corn is in the Silk to the Ponca. To
the Potawatomi it’s the Moon of the Middle.

And hearing the Haida name—
Cedar Bark for Hat & Baskets—
summons a vision of a craftsman

harvesting cedar bark, then coiling it
to hang and dry for a year, before
slicing it into strips to form

a gracefully sloping arc to a brim
atop a head tilted back to gaze
up at the fullness,

which by any name is a Joyful Moon,
a Moon of Ripening and a Time of Freshness
when it makes its monthly climb

into the heavens, shining its brilliance—
without seeking approval or asking
for anything in return—

on every blesséd living thing.

…your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

— Walt Whitman, from the preface to “Leaves of Grass”

This is when you get lost in the remembering,
in the silent lines of the beloved’s lips and face,

in every motion and joint of the body that once was,
and not just in the nakedness of that body,

which was, yes, a beautiful thing, but also in
the remembrance of your very flesh,

in the days before jiggle and sag, which you
no longer see in the body you own now.

But in photos and in dreams, the flesh that was
a great poem comes to you, and you wish again

that you had admired it then, that you had
listened to elders who admonished you

to cherish your beautiful body, the lovers who
adored it, though you did not find it adorable.

It was, you know now. It so was.

And the surprise of this moment is discovering
that this body, the garage for your soul,

still contains the richest fluency, that someone
still gazes at you, loving the silent lines of your face—

the ones you wish you hadn’t earned, but you did,
the ones cherished by someone who loves

every motion and joint of your body
just the way it is.

When she sees people duck out of sight as she comes toward them,
it occurs to her that they might worry about being the subject

of a future poem, which—as in her days as a journalist,
always trolling for stories—they might be. Who made her

a daily poet anyway? What drives her to generate and
share a poem 24/7? What has she got to write that’s so

poemworthy? No one says this, might not even think it,
but this thief does, boldly striding through the world,

snatching snippets out of the air, inhaling florals as she
walks by, tucking them into the bottomless drawers

in her poet brain, later having no idea where she has
filed them. But that’s the nature of poets and writers.

“Everything is copy,” Nora Ephron’s mother said,
grist for the mill. So you have been duly warned:

When you see her coming, you might want to
absent yourself, head off in another direction.

Then again, you might be willing to become
part of her ongoing quest, might be touched

to find yourself part of a love poem—
which every one of them is, it turns out—

tenderly set into lines just like these
for you.

Ages ago, a big orange cat
used to hoist himself up

behind my father’s head
resting in his recliner,

crowning the man we loved,
the only one who could

apply eye medicine to
Big Red’s baby greens,

the trusting kitty who’d go
boneless in my father’s

strong arms. And now,
my mother’s kitty

hops up behind my
tower of bed pillows,

curls himself behind
my curls, laying a paw

on my shoulder,
his crowning glory

anointing mine, as
royal felines do,

blessing the mere
mortals who serve

their furry majesties.

The one in my backyard, the moon’s
pregnant face inching each night
into her roundest form,

preparing to spit out baby stars,
before shrinking back to her
slender self, then disappearing

before starting her cycle again.
Here in my city yard I see few stars,
must content myself with a

downward gaze at the
moonshadowed sycamore’s
leaves dancing on the grass,

yellowing daily as the days
grow hotter, but now feels lush
and damp under my bare feet.

I have padded out here looking
for a black cat in the night
who is happily hiding,

in no mood to come in,
though we are approaching
a new day. I whisper his name,

get only a slight swish of leaves
in answer. But here, on this summer
night, this instant that will not

be like the next, much less
the next hour, the next night,
something compels me to stand

in the quiet and allow mystery
to soak in, momentarily
giving up the questions

without answers, no matter
how much I want them,
breathing into what is given.

A swish of cat tail against
my calf startles me back
into my body, and I bend

to pat what I cannot truly see,
then straighten and blink
at the brightness piercing

the dense canopy overhead.
Then I head back into the place
that I think of as my life,

where I will continue to practice
trust, having faith that, no matter
where I go, love in all its forms

is never far behind.

•••

(for beloveds afar—
Michael and Alison and Rose)