Güd wrtr

Autumnal equinox, Sept. 22, 2025,
Northern hemisphere

Today I imagine Western monarchs
born in late summer packing their
tiny bags, preparing to head south

for Mexico or Southern California,
seeking warm spots, trusting their
spot-on radar to guide them to

just-right trees where their fellow
travelers have begun to cluster,
piling on in a massive wingéd cuddle,

not eating or mating, conserving
energy through the cold months.
I prepare for the inward turn

as both hemispheres are equally
brightened by sun today, grateful
to those harvesting the fruits of fall,

apples and pears still ripening,
the figs and late-season plums
and melons, the trees preparing

to release their canopies. But,
like the butterflies, the trees,
the hibernators, humans, too,

must move into dormancy, wait
till our star stretches its rays
and our home planet tilts

sunward again. Then we’ll
shake out our wings, make
test flights to survey how

the world has changed
before making our way back
to where we started, which,

no matter how tidy we left it,
never looks exactly as we
remember, but, with luck,

welcomes our fluttering hearts,
the place all the more beautiful
for the coming home.

Driving home in the September dark,
I see a shadow of leafy something
affixed to the windshield, but,

since it’s not impairing my vision,
I zip up the onramp for the brief
hop on the freeway to my exit,

a swift 65 for a mile, then off,
then home in a trice. Pulling into
the driveway, the porch light

catches the leafy something’s
legs moving. Legs? Pushing my own
out of my four-wheeled cocoon,

I stand and bend and peer at
the darkened glass to find a mantis
of significant size that has not only

hitched a ride but hung on at speed,
only to be relocated a few miles
from, quite possibly, its native habitat.

Horrified, I gently scoop it up,
whispering apologies, deposit it
carefully atop the crawling viney

groundcover next to the driveway.
I do not see it leave, feel only
a slight tickle on my palm as it

leapfrogs to, I pray, safety,
relieved to have preserved this
one small life, knowing that it

cannot make up for all the others
I have not, will not,
ever be able to save.

A past that’s sprinkled with the blues
A few old dreams that I can’t use
Who’ll buy my memories of things that used to be?

—Laminated into the table in Willie‘s Corner at Texas Roadhouse in Elk Grove, CA
From Willie Nelson’s song, “Who’ll buy my memories?” 1984 on “The IRS Tapes”

•••

No one wants your old stuff,
we hear again and again as we
go through our old stuff,

the stuff getting older every day,
as are we. But some memories,
depending on what they are,

or whose they belong to, they
might be worth something.
Willie’s memories must be gold

shrouded in a fragrance of good
weed, and given what he’s done
and who he is, plenty of folks’d

be pleased to buy his memories.
Which, of course, they already do,
in every song, every twang on that

beaten-up old guitar, every word
from those creased lips that you just
know have kissed more than a few

others in their time. I played Willie
nonstop for Julie in her final weeks,
shrunk to a little cocoon of ribs,

no longer singing, mostly gone, her
determined 80-something heart still
keeping time to the raspy baritone.

I held her limp hand, wishing she could
lay into “On the Road” one more time,
or better yet, “Always on My Mind,”

which she still is—one of the many
diamonds in my overfull storehouse
of memories that nobody will want,

every one a gem
that I’ll never trade or sell.

C’mon, you cute thing,
ask me to meet you
at the soda shop

where you’ll buy me
a malted that a white
paper-hatted boy

will deliver to our
booth with three straws.
You’ll give me two,

you’ll take one, and
our teeth will chill
and our brains

will freeze a bit
as we share all that
chocolate frothiness.

Sure, we’ll pretend
to study, one book
open as if we’re eager

to dive into geometry
or Spanish or history.
But the history we’re

after is what we’re
making right here,
if we’re lucky,

a snapshot we’ll
look back on someday
when we’re old

and the kids are
grown, and we’ve got
more time behind us

than ahead. I’ll say,
“Remember this, hon?”
And even if you don’t,

you’ll catch my eye
as you did on that
first date, and say,

“Sure do, babe,”
taking my small
hand in your big one,

something that will
—I promise—
still make me smile.

(for Mom)

This could be your big chance to finally meet him,
you, who swooned from his Sundance Kid days,
imagining yourself as his leading lady in every film.

And if, as you postulated, we give up these bodies,
morphing into bits of energy zinging around
the universe, then how easy it might be for you,

who got there first, to brush up next to the essence
of what used to be an actual movie-star handsome
movie star—casually, no big deal, not saying a word

(because who knows if y’all speak in the after),
but somehow welcoming what used to be him
into forever, as so many must be doing,

especially his equally blue-eyed buddy who teasingly
stole Sundance’s onscreen woman, and, despite
the song, raindrops did not fall on anyone’s head.

They played bandits and con men—we didn’t care.
Our hero carted his fame high into the mountains,
became a champion of the environment—

not that he ever wanted applause for that either.
Up there in the wherever, you might exist as
a couple of anonymous bright lights among billions.

But should you two luminaries bump into
each other, say hi for us down here, will ya?
We miss you. We really do.

August feels like a deep inhale before the year tilts toward fall.
—Carissa Potter

We feel the tilting, the planet beginning
its annual lean in this hemisphere,

the trees already letting go of their shade,
though summer has not let go of us yet

in our neck of the woods. The deep inhale,
we find, is September, the final month of heat,

which could nudge its way into October—
fire season going easy on us this year,

which we hate to say, tempting fate,
knowing how flames can race through

our world at any time. Still, we inhale
the swerve toward fall, which ignores

the calendar, having already overtaken
other places, calling for sweaters and jackets,

which those of us still sweating long for,
while others feel our lizard selves

soaking up what we can as long as we can,
storing it up against what is coming—

whether we like it or not—
what is surely headed our way.

Thoughts. I have so many. If overthinking was a crime, I’d be serving a life sentence.
Maybe a run-on sentence.

—T. De Los Reyes, from “Read a Little Poetry”

Maybe not a crime, maybe more
of a grammatical sin, though maybe not,
the overthinking, the fly-by thoughts
zooming through, of course, it’s a life sentence,

born with this brain you can’t change,
and while it means that you barely draw
breath between thoughts, much less
plant a period between sentences, that

whoosh of material, those images, those
words, those snippets of music and lyrics,
scenes from movies you saw decades ago,
they’re part of the corpuscular river

rushing through the veins of your cranium,
and all those who urge you to slow down,
take a thought and chew on it for a bit, then
swallow it, let it go, this constant life review,

a revisitation of conversation and actions
about what has been or not, what might be,
is not always your friend, but hey, you can’t
help it, you chalk it up to a creative mind,

a brain built to juggle all manner of input,
and, by the way, where did you last see
those juggling balls, the ones you literally
used to toss in the air in front of college

students lost in their thoughts, you trying
to briefly still their wandering minds
and get them to focus on whatever you were
trying to teach them, only later did it hit you

that you had no control over what stuck
in their brains, over what they might take
with them, but oh, how they’d giggle as you
literally kept three balls in the air, hoping

a clever metaphor would emerge from your
mouth, listening to them guffaw when you
dropped a ball, how someone would retrieve it,
toss it back to you mid-juggle, one of the rare

moments when your great river of thoughts
temporarily stalled, when for some reason
you could focus on what was right in front of
your eyes, the loop-de-loop of pink rubber

balls landing softly in your hands, you
concentrating only on the catching and tossing,
breathing in time to the rhythm of controlled
flight of spherical objects, watching the cascade,

oh, yes, again, again, again.

Yours was lilac, though you didn’t wear the scent,
but planted two in the back yard, walked the sloping
grass to sniff them when they bloomed.

Hers was tea—at least to me—she who kept a tea
drawer before I did, who loved good tea from a
Canadian company and had it shipped, along with
the lemon curd she loved.

His was wood shavings from boards hewn in the garage,
the bits clinging to him like fleas that he brought in
the house, where I still sometimes walk in the front door
and smell the shavings of pine and redwood, long gone
but not.

Now and then I smell the dog who died a decade ago
when I walk in, too, though I’ve forgotten so many others,
which reminds me to sniff those I love when I am
in their presence, craft a sense memory, and somehow
embed it in my cells

so that when that scent comes,
when they no longer can,
so will sweet tears,
bringing them back
as a reminder that they’ve
truly never left.

(for Lindsey and Chuck, bound for England)

Clouds stacked up for miles ahead
like planes waiting to land—

or flat-bottomed sailboats scudding
across endless blue—

I wanted to follow where they were
headed, but the road turned southward,

and the flotilla continued east,
and as so often happens, I was left

longing for the direction I could
not travel, over thataway—

no idea why it beckoned me,
just knowing that it had—

and how much I yearned to go.

(with apologies to Miss Dickinson)

Hope is the thing with flowers
that germinate in the soil
and push their way toward the light—

and somehow spring into their
short-lived lives with such joy
that we smile every time we see them—

and, like the butterflies and bees,
bless their presence in our lives,
in this world that needs their

persistent, glorious promise.