Güd wrtr

You do not remember that self,
that more-than-half-century-ago self,

that skinny girl with braces and so much
life ahead of her, though she sports the crinkly

left eye that still looks smaller when you
smile, as if you are winking, just like

your 93-year-old mother, you who have
inherited her eye color and now

the glaucoma that darkens her days. And,
of course, you got older, grayer, heftier,

wrinklier. If you are lucky, you get to do that,
as your mother shows you every day, unlike

some of your beloveds who celebrated far
fewer birthdays on the planet. You smile

at your former self on the wall in your
mother’s house every time you look

at her, even if you don’t remember that
girl very well. Somewhere deep inside—

she nudges you with a wink—
she remembers you.

It’s been a long day, and you’re losing light
faster now, the days shortening long
before you’re ready,

and at the busy intersection where it always
takes longer than you like for the light
to go green, you look beyond

what’s in front of you—that piercing red
taillight—and note the curving arrow
pointing the way, as it always does,

and above it—can it be?—the day’s
last light through a heart framed by
trees, and you think,

No way. But there it is, and as you
drive slowly through the intersection,
your eyes affixed on that heart,

it does not move until you have to
turn the wheel slightly to the left,
and then it disappears

into curving branches and darkening
leaves, many of which will fall any day
now. There is more

to lose than light—
you feel it coming—but you
decide to accept the gift,

to take the love shining at you,
and thank those in the illumination
department for their excellent work,

as you keep driving west
toward home,
always into the light.

I don’t math for spit,
as you, little sister,
well know, and

though neither of us
is losing her hair (thank
the goddesses of tresses),

you can’t be that old
because you still look
45ish, while I’m rocking

my old white-haired
self at 66. And besides,
I have photos showing

your cute little girl
blondness that I swear
feels like yesterday.

And sure, you retired
from your three-plus-
decade day job into

full grandmahood,
but you are way more
youthful than either of

our grandmas. So phooey
on the numbers. No
matter what the song

says, we certainly still
need you. We thank
you for so kindly,

so often, feeding us.
Let us shower you with
all kinds of adoration

because you are the
bestest, and, oh, yes,
we still need you,

please let us feed you
(everybody sing!)
now you’re 64.

There she is,
lying on the sidewalk
as if the artist has left her

there for passers-by
like me, her cherry cheeks
beaming, her purple hair

streaming into—is that
aqua?—so colorful,
so fashionable down

to her fuchsia shoes.
What I like best are her
extended arms—her

here I am, world
stance, right there on
the boulevard.

And while tempted
to pick up this masterpiece
and take it with me,

I leave it where it lies,
anchored by a couple
of oak-flung acorns,

imagining who might
find it next,
a what’s this? smile

creeping across their face,
as the budding artist peeks
from behind the old oak

and giggles.

(for Kay Duren)

Taking a bag to the can on the street
in deep night, having forgotten earlier,

I step into shine so radiant that
I could be working on a tan out here.

And, marveling at the density of my
shadow on the driveway, I stop,

look up—straight up—to inhale
the year’s brightest full moon,

near perigee, close as it gets to
its planet, a mere 221,938 miles

away as the rocket flies. Though
the past two fulls have also been

super, this is the big whopper,
fitting on your momentous day,

as if Luna herself decided to mark
your 80 turns around the sun,

showing off her brightest
celestial self to this world

she oversees. This one that,
like so many of us,

celebrates your brilliance,
your lasting presence, too.

The gaping mouths
of emptied bins
tossed on their sides

by the big beasts
that have consumed
what lay inside

always look forlorn
a little lost
as those tossed aside

always do.

Not even the susurrus of a breeze
rustling through leaves—
all is still by the river.

I am late, the early birds,
the day’s first walkers
having moved on.

I usually take this path
with another, but on this
cloudy morning,

a spit of rain finally
falling from dry skies,
I go solo.

Alone, I relish the quiet,
the great river silently
making its way

gradually to the sea.
And then
the snicker of geese

brings me near the edge
to see them hovering
near the opposite shore.

And, as I get closer,
on a sandbar’s rise,
a heron stands sentinel

accompanied by
a trio of cormorants,
attendant mallards

swimming nearby.
A squawk, the flip
of a fish close to me,

a single trilling bird
and finally, the merest
breeze, lifting.

As if we are ever
truly alone.
As if there aren’t

other beating
hearts
always nearby.

They paint the sky with swoop
and fall, with pirouette and jeté,

bird ribbons synchronized
in a dusky cloud shortly

before sunset, perhaps to
keep warm, to whisper

where to find food, all in
preparation for sleep.

They have no leader;
they follow no plan,

but if you stop to watch
a mumuration of starlings,

look up and listen well—
your limited ears might

detect the whispers of
of thousands of wingbeats

and soft flight calls, fluid
poetry written on the sky

in a whoosh of wings.

Drops from oak tree just ahead of me
on my walk, bounces twice,
rolls over to display
its belly.

I step over it, peer closely as it joins
its nutty brethren on the ground
in this, the falling time,
dropping like rain,
wondering how many more
will fall.

What if it is simply a releasing,
this natural cycle of restoration,
of trying to plant new life?
Not an ending at all,
though it may look that way
to those of us plagued by
the limited vision
of humanity.

What if, by pocketing a few
of the fallen and taking them
home as treasures, I honor
their implied promise—
the possibility of new life?
The assurance that
somehow, in some way
we cannot foresee,
we will go on.

I tuck them in my pocket,
where, with every step,
they click like castanets,
and I go on.

When you start to crack open,
well, that’s it. Your old stuff
starts leaking out like lava
from a fresh fissure,

hot and messy, and yes,
you want to get away from
that. As if you could.
As if you could gather

it all back up with a
big ol’ spoon and pour
it back into you. Never
gonna work. Not

supposed to. Instead,
that new self is yummy
egg yolk, the color of
the golden daisies

still well-petaled in
the front yard. What’s
spilling from your interior
is sunlight, my dear,

straight from you into
the world, fiery magma
newly expelled from
the interior of a planet.

Like tears, it’s not meant
to be gathered. It’s meant
to be spread around
indiscriminately,

everywhere, for everyone,
into everything, which is
what sunlight does.
You’re sunshine now,

lovely one, and you
can’t—you shouldn’t—
do anything but let
yourself shine.