Güd wrtr

(for Bryn)

If only you could remember where
you dropped those coins on the path
that led you here,

you’d scuff your way back through
all manner of leaf duff and detritus
to find the once-gleaming discs,

pick them up, wipe them off
and head into the now. But both
path and markers have vanished

into mystery, and, as they say,
the only way out is through. So
you’re stumbling your way

through, holding hands with
new souls delivered to you for
this part of the journey, all

of you stepping with purpose,
looking up at the blueblue sky,
squinting at the shining daystar

winking through dark branches.
Count on it dutifully rising
every day, always, even when

shrouded in cloud. You’ve
learned that the lightburst
warms and holds

your quivering self,
delivering tangible love
both seen and unseen.

Start walking… then comes
a moment of feeling the wings
you’ve grown, lifting—

into this moment,
and the next and the next
and on and on and on.

Amene.

•••

(The quote, “Start walking…,” is from the Coleman Barks translation
of Rumi’s poem, often titled “Unfold Your Own Myth.“)

Hose in hand, early evening
watering the feast of greenery

my garden goddess neighbor
has coaxed into fullness along

the driveway, when I see
a slender, lime green insect

hightail it up the vertical black
post. I belay the shower,

peer closely at the tiny folded
umbrella that has reached safety,

pausing—then poof!—inflating
into—could it be?—grasshopper,

its sharply angled back legs
poised for movement. I wait for

the jump, imagine our breaths
synchronizing, as it vaults

into midair, the mini gymnast
bounding into the bounty

of wisteria leaves, no doubt
sticking the landing once again

after another leap of faith—
one of hundreds it must make

without thought or reason
in this too-short season

of a moment wrapped into
a life.

(For the conservation team of toad-raisers at the San Francisco Zoo)

With faces that perhaps only other toads
could love, 118 Yosemite toads recently
hopped into a remote meadow where

their ancestors once thrived—each settler
outfitted with a nifty amphibian antenna
snugly attached. Their predecessors perished

in the 2013 Rim Fire that swept through
many of these mountain meadows, but these
descendants have been brought home.

The curmudgeonly looking creatures with
their lazy eyelids look so mellow for rock stars
not seen in a decade in these parts,

the only toads in the Sierra living at
11,000 feet—and no other place on Earth.
What a comeback—their numbers reduced

by half more than a decade ago—
the brown-and-black speckled hoppers
making their way around ancestral land,

sending information back to the humans
who saved them at toady mission control,
eager for every transmission from

this new generation of tailless explorers,
transported 180 miles east by helicopter,
landing in a particular kind of outer space.

Great Aunt Jan got to feed Henry
tiny bits of avocado off her salad
the other day, lunching with

Henry’s second cousin and his
grandma, his seven tiny teeth
barely grazing my finger,

which, his grandma (my sister)
tells me, is unusual, given that
he can really chomp on

finger foods. And I remembered
doing the same with his mama
as a little one, these California

babies perhaps born to the avo’s
unusual taste and texture, his
big eyes never leaving mine

as he gently tongued avocado
from my finger into his mouth,
leaving Great Aunt Jan charmed

and slimy, in that order.

You feel your bare feet
on that rug, walking toward
cushions that will cradle you,
pillows that will prop you up
just the way you like, to cozy in
with a book off the shelf.

OK, two books. Maybe three.

The clear light of outside
warms the space—
a little upside down boat
ready to shove off into
waters known and not,

its old wood seaworthy,
the color of ocean so clear
you can see fish swimming
beneath you, gentle waves
lapping, carrying you to

a place not here, not there,
but somewhere dreams
are born, sailing onto
pages just for you.

You fall in and, buoyed by
story, you float and float
and float.

You are a guest. Leave this earth a little more beautiful,
a little more human, a little more lovable, a little more fragrant,
for those unknown guests who will be following you.

—Osho

•••

Strip the bed before you leave.
Sweep. Turn out the lights.

Generally tidy your surroundings
so that those who come after

will be grateful for your kindness,
not realizing that the little flowers

poking their tiny heads out of
earth where you planted them

are gifts from someone they will
never know. You will not hear

their thanks, but they, too, will
be passing through as you did—

as the bees do—whether for
minutes or hours or years.

Be a good guest.

Offer your gratitude for this spot
on the planet that hosted you,

that other hands tidied for you,
that someone left for you,

as you will do, leaving an
unwritten note that breathes

in this sacred space, whispering,
Welcome.

As I pause to make the turn
on the labyrinth, I look up
at the grand oak that watches
over this space with its brethren,

spellbound, as I often am,
by the graceful curves of its limbs,
by its rooted dancer’s body.

I want to call it her,
but, like all divine beings,
it exists without gender or specifics,
other than the roughness of old bark,
a kind of skin like that
aging on my own frame,

the particular formation of leaves
so high that I cannot make them out
individually, but shelter gratefully
under their embracing shade.

The oak, I see, has retained some
dying parts, brittle leaves attached
to weak limbs still hanging on,
not seeming to bother the rest
of the healthy tree.

If we are lucky, we, too,
ebb bit by bit over a long period,
might not notice the fading
or prefer to ignore it.

But, even impaired, we manage
to remain as upright as possible,
reaching for sky, faces toward light,
healing old wounds even as parts
of us ache and decline. And, when
it is time to drop our leaves, we
try to do so with some grace,
not fussing as they fall, hoping
others might sprout anew.

And, if they don’t,
we spread our limbs wide
anyway, offer sanctuary,
radiate love.

•••

(for Christie Braziel, with gratitude)

Or maybe more of a why not?
Not allowing excuses, worries,
baseless what ifs? to leap like
tiny toads into the mind,

instead admiring the wee
amphibians and their webbed
feet, seeing their slick-spotted,
leafy green selves as delights,
kind-spirited visitors, not as
intruders to be shooed away.

Similarly, I choose to hear
the tenacious buzz of the fly
dive-bombing my right ear
on a hot summer night

as a note I can mimic,
evolving into a hum
that tickles the earlobe.
one that calls for a melody,
then some harmony.

Let me listen for the songs
of living things as they
drift by.

Let me lift my voice,
and join in, saying
yes, why not?

Yesyesyes!

(for Mom, Dorothy/Darlene Haag, on her 93rd birthday)

No matter how tired I find myself on a Momday,
I follow her into Curves, take up a position
on an apparatus designed to exercise

a specific body part. She’s already ahead of me,
settling her small frame into the big chair,
grasping the handles as though she’s

about to steer the thing through deep space,
which she’d dearly love to do. And who says
she can’t, this 93-year-old once glued

to every “Star Trek” episode? She’s spent
decades exploring strange, new worlds,
seeking out new lifeforms and civilizations,

and she continues to boldly go where …
well, wherever she wants to go.
May she live long and prosper.

(for the artist known as Ememem of Lyon, France)

He heals asphalt fractures—
potholes, cracks in sidewalk
and asphalt—

the anonymous French
street artist who calls himself
the pavement surgeon,

using all manner of tile to
mosaic everything from delicate
fissures to deep crevices,

stealthily ornamenting
crater-sized gashes that most
pedestrians otherwise ignore.

This sidewalk poet employs
bits of thrown-away ceramics,
scraps to most, weaving

custom bandages that erase
the ugly with high-fashion
restoration. He turns scruffy

streets into sidewalk jewelry,
He polishes the unsightly
into ingenious attractions

that stop the feet of passers-by,
riveting them to the most
ordinary spots for just

a moment to marvel over
over wounds so randomly
inflicted, so prettily healed.

•••

You can see more of Ememem’s work here.