Güd wrtr

(for Georgann)

I had no idea you could send a package
from your corner of forever.
I assume it was from you

because I can’t think of who else
would send me a noteless box of gifts
with items that are so you:

• a soft violet blanket with the inscription,
This blanket is a hug from me to you,

•a skinny fabric Dammit Doll
to take out frustrations on,

• a squishy sheep, presumably for squeezing,
instead of biting one’s nails, which you did,

• and a little quarter-sized piece
of silver metal that says hug on it.

I searched for a clue as to what
living person might have been so kind
to send such a gift in a month of struggle,

but since no one has come forth,
I have concluded that it had to be you,
wonderful you.

It had to be you.

(for my mother)

Not that you were a gardener.
You couldn’t keep half the plants
in the pots on your patio alive,
forgetting to water them as you did.

As a kid, I remember African violets
boldly purple in small planters on
the windowsill over the sink, which you
set there so you’d remember to fill
the small shrimp cocktail jar
you kept nearby for the flowers.

But somewhere along the line,
that stopped, as did so many things,
decade by decade, and Donna and I
took to tending and trimming the plants
when we’d come by, adding new,
replacing the dead every Mother’s Day.

Still, you liked growing things, and
if you’d’ve been here, I’d’ve sent you
this photo of a woman’s hands with
her garden’s final offerings in late
October, arranged top to bottom
in perfect chakra order—

you who loved the rainbow of
energy centers in the body—

a small aubergine as they say
in the UK, a little ball of eggplant
crowning at the top, down to
the sly smile of a red pepper
representing the root. And
in between a periwinkle,
a frilly yellow zinnia and
a beaming orange marigold.

You might have focused on
the gardener’s dirty hands or
the green tattoo on her wrist,
but Ma, the point is to admire
what emerged from a garden
at the end of its season—

all that color arranged on the palm
of the person who watched those
exquisite bits of life grow,
now plucked and dying,
but still so vibrant,

likely unaware of their approaching end,
held by the one who loves them,
who wanted to show them to strangers
so that we, too, might appreciate
their fleeting, earthy beauty.

(for the writers who come from all over
the world to write with me online)

How we chafed, stuck inside,
reduced, we fumed, to communicating
only with those in our living spaces

and faces of others we were missing
locked in tiny rectangles on this
newfangled online doorway.

How long did it take us to realize
the magic of the portal into people’s
lives? To see, if they allowed us to,

the rooms in which they sat,
their smiles, weary of confinement,
delighted to reach through

this gateway in cyberspace
and catch, often more closely
than if we were in person,

the crinkles around their eyes
when their faces blossomed
taking in our own. That we

were allowed such ingress
into the intimate spaces
of others, at such a difficult

moment, seemed miraculous,
even as we chafed under
the constraints. To continue

the opening even now, in times
when there is such distance,
real or imagined, between us,

that’s wondrous—the delight
of seeing your faces, expectant,
hopeful, watching mine,

joy swelling my cheeks as if
filled with precious nuts,
with luck, enough to last me

through winter.

(for Sue Lester)

Though my best childhood buddy next door
grew up with a rare, red, actual racing Ferrari
prized by her father in their garage,
I was nurtured to adulthood by a dad
who could tear apart a Chevy engine
and put it back together, a skill he thought
every man should possess.

While Sue’s mother made homemade sourdough
bread we considered holy because of its gaps
that leaked jelly, my mother was, at best,
a TV dinner/Sloppy Joe’s/frozen veggies
kinda gal.

Pasta made only special guest appearances
(hello, Hamburger Helper!) on our table,
but when I’d go to others’ houses where
moms served spaghetti, or, better yet,
next door to delight in Mrs. Lester’s tuna
tuna and noodles, I was sure I was
consuming heaven on a plate.

Likewise, my car knowledge runs to
the Honda/Toyota/Hyundai variety,
despite a period when my late husband’s
1958 Porsche 356 A, reposed in pieces
in the garage.

So my mind boggled the other day
as I stood next to a purple Lamborghini
in a parking lot, a small piece of my brain
half thinking that the fancy Italian name
was a type of noodle.

But no. Even I could see that this was
not related to anything good for slurping
with good marinara, that this incredible
vehicle was far too classy—and ten times
more expensive—than the nine-year-old
Elantra I inherited from my mother.

But I could peer at the deep purple gem—
a color I adore, rarely seen on four wheels—
sensing that, even at rest, this terrestrial rocket
can whisk across the land at something
approaching 200 mph. And that it
costs the earth, too.

While I admired the brilliant Italian
engineering contained in its innards—
forgive me, Mr. Lester—I realized that
I do not covet its speed or style.

I’m happy with my fettucine of a sedan
that putters along life’s roads,
carrying me, with oodles of joy,
pretty much everywhere
I want to go.

In response to the widespread web outages today,
we encourage everyone to get outside and look at some birds.
—National Audubon Society, 10/20/25

Why’re all those two-leggeds staring up at us?
Have they lost their minds? Or have they lost
the little boxes they’re forever clutching
and looking into?

We’re certainly no more interesting today
than we were yesterday. Same old us
standing on the same old wire.
Singing to you from the tree
in the back yard. Doin’ what we do.

But look at ’em looking. Some with
big eye extensions held to their faces
bringing us in closer. Funny two-leggeds
with their clodhoppin’ feet.

You know what we’re gonna do?
Perch here and look right back.
As we do every day, even if tomorrow
you go back to the little boxes,
whether or not you venture outside,
think to look up and hear us singing
for you.

Malama ke kua’ana i ke kaikaina,
ho’olohe ke kaikaina i ke kua’ana.

The older sibling cares for the younger sibling,
And the younger sibling listens to the older sibling.

—Lāiana Kanoa-Wong
Hawaiian Word of the Day, Hawaii News Now

•••

Though, like all gods and goddesses,
Pele inhabits all of Hawaii,

the fiery volcano goddess makes her home
in Halema’uma’u crater at the summit

of Kilauea volcano on the Big Island—where,
for almost a year now, she has burst into

fabulous displays of fountaining lava. She’s
like that at times, the show-offy older sister,

unlike her younger sister Hi’iaka, the
goddess of hula and healing, whose

sacred power over lightning makes the sky
flash with streaks of quiet power.

They work together: Pele creates new land
and Hi’aka heals it, greens it, makes it fertile,

causes new life to grow. As you have done,
kaikaina, younger sister, your gentle hand

on the tiller of this family for six-and-a-half
decades, bringing the light and growth

and healing to so many, including your
kaikua’ana, this grateful older sister,

wishing you a tender hau’oli la hanau
on this, your birthday.

•••

For Donna Gail, best thither ever, on her 65th birthday!

A tiny frog
in the back yard
pipes up days
after rain has left
a puddle in the grass,

hoarse, croaky,
perhaps struggling
with a… you know…
in its wee throat,

imitating, it seems to me,
a persistent squeak of shoe
or complaining floorboard—

not unlike a human-sized
inflatable frog on the street
defending democracy,

one small ribbit joined
by pumped-up friends
Panda, Giraffe, T-rex,
Hot Dog, Unicorn and
other nonviolent resisters,

some carrying the grand old flag
upside down in protest,
other costumed citizens
on the march,

demonstrating their right
to free speech, hoisting,
as the song goes,

…a high-flying flag,
forever in peace
may you wave.

•••

(Lyrics from the song “You’re A Grand Old Flag” by George M. Cohan in 1906.)

That remembers something old—
Earth

A word from what you are harvesting now—
Gratitude

One that a bird might say—
Joy

Give me a word that wants to be repeated—
Kindness

One that feels like an embrace—
Hug

Give me a word that feels like
kindling for more words—
Speak

Let the heat of each letter
rise with the flame—
Dream

Give me a word that you
don’t have to surrender—
Humanity

that is an act of defiance—
Gather

a word that might be
a candle in the dark—
Hope

•••

For those around the world protesting tyranny, Oct. 18, 2025.

(Thanks to Emily Stoddard for “a word” prompts.)

For even during your final summers,
the engine of your life

literally working its little heart out,
could not adequately heat your chilled self,

did not warm your hands and feet,
kept you swaddled in fleece and warm slippers

on the most blazing days.
As the temperature finally starts to drop

after a few days of cooling rain, I am thankful
that you do not have to endure another winter.

I think of your essence, which was never cold,
you who offered enduring comfort to everyone

in your embracing orbit, a generous circumference
around all your beloveds

who feel your warmth
still.

•••

For Margery Thompson (1946–2025) on the day her family
and friends celebrate her remarkable life.

There are few still alive
who remember my little girl hair,
which I, of course, cannot recall.

Except that my earliest memories
tug like the brush through
unruly ringlets that my mother
tried to calm, if not tame.

All these years later—after bouts
of attempted straightening,
even in college going full permanent
that made me look, as my colleagues
at one newspaper fondly said,
like a blizzardhead—

I wear my hair short,
let it curl whichever crazy way
it wants.

Bright sunlight turns it the color
of a woolly, pewter-tinged cloud,
and I imagine those who held me
and combed me and fussed over me
more than six decades ago,
looking down from their perch
in the forever,

nodding and smiling at this
slow pupil finally coming to
embrace these curls inherited
from those who made her,
this hair that she
has come to love.