Güd wrtr

It is a pact within a sacred partnership: If you lose the way home, I will come for you. If I lose my way, you will come for me. If we are both lost, someone must find a way to outstretch a hand and come back to the heart.

—Alexandra Roxo, from “Dare to Feel: The Transformational Path of the Heart”

•••

Dear friend: I fear that
we have become separated
on the journey—

you so far ahead of me,
I lingering behind—or
perhaps the other way

round—that we cannot
hear the other’s voice or
detect familiar footsteps.

Of its own accord,
I feel my handless heart
outstretched,

remembering two
pulsing souls who, though
momentarily blind

and wordless, might,
I hope, be working
their way back

to each other, mistily
aware of a promise
neither remembers

making—
I will come for you,
I will find you—

calling as crows to their
brethren when they
have lost the beat

of another’s heart:
I am here!
Where are you?

I am here! There,
my friend, are you!
Here we are.

There are areas far out at sea where
it rains a great deal. Camus said
it rained so hard even the sea was wet.

—Jim Harrison, from “The Times Atlas” in “The Theory and Practice of Rivers”

•••

Most of us cannot see
far enough out to sea
where Rain adds to
Ocean,

which is Rain’s job,
after all, to replenish
Earth, along with Sun,
which prods

all things growing.
We look up on this
misty morning to
realize that

bare tree sentinels
watching over us
all winter seem to be
tentatively

greening with lacy
embellishments.
Dainty leaves
emerge

like us, blinking,
as Sun plays hide
and seek with
Clouds,

as once again,
Rain nudges us
wet upon wet,
into spring.

As my fella likes to remind me,
I’m surprised I have to tell you this:

If you think you’re having fun,
you are.

If you think you’re miserable,
you are.

Which would you rather be?

What about taking delight
in your blessedly fabulous

imperfection? And then
finding joy in the flawed bits

anyway, living lighthearted
just because you can.

(for Kevin Just, who is 34 today, with love from Aunt Jan)

(for Kathy Keatley Garvey)

The safest place for an aphid is on the back
of a lady beetle, which seems dangerous
for the aphid, given the lady beetle’s

voracious appetite for the little buggers.
There’s logic in hiding in plain sight,
just out of view of this predator—

a biter of people, an eater of aphids—
considered more of a pest than its
gentler ladybug cousin. But the little guy

riding shotgun doesn’t know that,
hitching a ride on a convenient conveyance—
two resourceful wee beasties

facing an infinitely precarious future,
fulfilling their roles as all creatures do
in the universe of things,

moving in tandem toward
an unknown destination
one tiny step at a time.

I bring home two bunches
of the unbloomed things,
slender green pencils with
just a hint of what’s to come

at the tips, their shrouded
crayon color that will, in
a day or two, fluff into hot
yellow skirts of daffodils,

trumpeting spring through
perky floral bullhorns. I do
this every year—squeak in
delight when they appear in

rubber-banded clusters. I may
have gone to the store for cheese
sticks and yogurt, avocado and
a turkey-and-apple sandwich,

but I cannot ignore the whisper
of a full bin of daffodils fixin’
to bloom, $2.99 a bunch.
Take ‘em home, add water

to a favorite vase, plop ’em
in and stand back. I swear
they unfurl in slow motion,
ruffle by ruffle as I watch,

a time lapse of blossoms
blossoming on the dining
room table, a forgotten
miracle I didn’t realize

I was waiting for.

We all bear the great weight
of unseen somethings.

For you, one hand hovering over
the avocados, carrying the great grief

of how could that happen?
that wasn’t supposed to happen.

For her, pushing the dense
boulder of a shopping cart

seemingly uphill, filled with
if only, if only, if only.

For him, picking up the quart
of milk, then the remembering,

the putting it back of how
could you leave me like this?

For me, filling a bag with
loose-leaf tenderness,

along with a handful
of softheartedness,

and leaving it right there
for you, for her, for him,

to lighten the heaviness
of the invisibles we tote,

everywhere we go.

You might cross that bridge
when you come to it,
or you might not.

You, overburdened
pilgrim, a tiny bit broken,
might hesitate, stop even,

wondering what the next
right step might be. You,
ferrying your own fragile

heart—you, witness,
caretaker of so many
others’ stories. Take

a breath, brave human,
and set a tentative foot
on the bridge that will

lead you somewhere,
though you cannot see
where. One foot, then

the other and another,
right step after right step—
you and your limpy,

wayfaring self—
press forward, then
pause for another breath.

Look up and revel in
the beyond-endless
clouds frothily stacked

like whipped cream,
like a storm-surged sea.
Take a moment for awe,

you with so much love
stinging your heart,
suspended between

this side and that,
between now and then,
between here and gone.

You cannot go astray.

adj: [yoo-də-MAH-nik] Conducive to happiness

•••

A cloudy day,
dry in our city while
snow bombards
the Sierra,

and warmish,
enough so that some
of us remove our
scarves, our gloves,

but we happily wear
our smiles as we follow
Shelley through
a morning’s exercise,

sitting sometimes,
standing at others,
as 1964 hits bounce
around us—

of course,
She Loves You

of course, you
Can’t Buy Me Love

And when the
opening notes of
Twist and Shout
twang in our ears,

Shelley calls out,
Dance! and we do.
twisting like
teeny boppers,

all us happy,
happy oldies.

There is no ruler for love,
no way to precisely measure
the depth and breadth and height
a soul can reach,

just as you reach into the cupboard
for the glass with its fine red lines
stair-stepping up its squatty self
that measures only ounces,
not devotion,

just as your grandmother’s
measuring spoon cannot accurately
weigh a tablespoon’s worth of her
affection to pour into the chasm
of you.

So much is measureless,
it seems—that cloud wandering
lonely across a blue-sky day
or the weight of a ginormous
stormy mass darkening everything
beneath it before delivering
a good soaking rain.

Trying to measure the abstract,
you find after years of trying,
is pointless.

Like feeling some part deep inside—
one you can’t name and don’t want to—
that swells at the mention of a beloved
you’ll never see again.

Like standing before a painting
hanging alone on a vast white wall
that depicts no specific reality—
the very definition of abstract—
that somehow moves you.

Or, sitting in an audience, and,
as notes lift like tiny hot air
balloons, feeling yourself rise
with the orchestra, looking down,

all that limitless love
suffusing you to overflowing.

Mine is four-footed and feline ancient,
hopping up on the towel-covered box
next to my desk, eager to join me—

or the banana nut muffin I have
thoughtlessly moved out of her reach.
Poki is old and limpy, but if I

get a muffin for myself, no matter
where she is in the house, my mews
will find it—though what she really

wants is to nibble the crumbs left
on the paper muffin cup, a tiny
bit of sweetness in what I think of

as her last years, possibly months.
Don’t we all look for the opportunity
to sit with them, sometimes with

a single cry? I’m here, I love you,
please share a little bit of you
with me.