Güd wrtr

Even when you walk the same street
two hours later, things look different—

picket fence shadows slanting northward,
bread plate-sized sycamore leaves
wind-pressed against a retaining wall.

The walk home feels different, too—
mid afternoon sun on your face,
a vigorous breeze skittering the leavings
under so many trees silently preparing
to release the year’s foliage, standing tall
as they have for generations along this
busy street.

A bicycled boy from the middle school
down the sidewalk, stops, waits for you
to pass, and, two blocks later, another boy,
both helmeted, pedaling furiously,
and just now a pig-tailed, plaid-skirted girl
from another era walking home from
the Catholic elementary school where,
earlier, you heard children’s voices
ricochet off the playground.

You smile at stepping stones painted in
rainbow colors, the texture of criss-crossed
palm tree bark, picket fence shadows,
and the unspoken trust of plastic-sheathed
dry cleaning flapping like translucent ghosts,
hanging on a front porch mail slot, delivered
from the cleaners a block away.

You walk, speaking into your phone,
looking as if you cannot move without
this electronic device, drivers in cars
probably judging you, but this is the way
without pen and paper you capture
the poem, gathering.

And, oh, what a gift it is, this neighborhood
in this city of trees that has sheltered you
for decades, the familiar sidewalk curving
onto your block where you pass your favorite
neighbor ginkgo, still green-fanned, this old
friend that will release its bounty next month,
goldening the lawn around it.

You walk home in spots of light
and periods of dense shadow,
an obvious metaphor, you think,
hardly poem-worthy,

but you grab it out of the air,
set it down on a line,
just to see how it looks.

There.
Like that.

Not Indian, for good reasons,
though I like the notion that the name
for this in-between season possibly
came from the Narragansett people
who believed that these distinctly
un-fallish days were delivered by
a warm wind from the great spirit
Cautantowwit.

This second summer, after the first one,
flushes with temperate days still warm
enough to coax leggy cosmos into doing
the can-can and prompts what surely
must be the last hollyhocks of the year
to burst like pink boutonnieres
destined for young men’s jackets.

I am happy to slip on flip flops and
aloha shirt, to head into the back yard
where it is warmer than inside the house,
which seems to have gotten the message
about cooler nights. But out here
a shaggy-headed rose nods along
with the geraniums and canary yellow
zinnias eager for a drink, so I pick up
the hose, wondering how much longer
I will need to water—then shake
my head at such heresy.

Too soon I’ll be inside looking out,
wishing for second summer days
like these, lingering over the persistent
flowers I sprinkle now, scuffing
through fallen leaves wearing
their crunchy veined smiles,
the old sycamore already growing
next year’s greenness deep inside
itself.

Because I was teaching—
something I rarely do these
days—I missed the eclipse,
relying on the eyes of others,

later absorbed by photos of
hundreds of tiny half moons
projected through a pinhole
of some kind—a colander

in one case—little smudges
of light and shadow spilling
onto sidewalk or building,
piercing black pupils

surrounded by bright irises.
I focused on those partially
eclipsed crescents beamed
earthward, imagining that

those wispy shapes had
more to teach than I did.
Why didn’t I think to urge us
all to push away from our

screens and step outside?
Not to look up, but to look
down at the reflected glory
in miniature of our nearest

star—just there, underfoot—
such resplendent grandeur
that surely will outlast
us all.

(on her feast day, Oct. 15)

Watering the garden of the soul
helps it grow, she said, like
the initial strain of pulling a
full bucket up from a well

gradually becoming easier,
as if by a God-driven pulley,
leading to effortless irrigation
by an unseen hand, and,

eventually, oh, ecstasy—
rain falling from heaven,
no human intervention
needed. This from a woman

who cradled her nephew,
crushed by a collapsed
building, until he returned
to life.

And I see her, this saint,
mourning a dead loved
one, all her years of soul-
tending prayer poured into

earnest supplication, as
women do hourly now
amid the rubble of what
had been their lives,

holding the bodies of
beloveds, praying for
miracles, for evidence
of replenishing rain,

for acts of love.

In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.
—Denise Levertov

Let the pen fold into the hand
like the neck bending forward,
chin tilting down,

Let the point of the pen touch
the blank page with reverence,
with gentle pressure,

Let the ink begin to flow,
words begin to appear,
a necklace of strung gems

that, without thought, take form,
become something where
there was nothing,

an offering, a supplication,
a devotion, a surprising bit
of grace,

a communion of spirit and self,
like any other kind of prayer,
this one, like every one,

unique in the moment, and with
the final words, a benediction
of thanksgiving.

•••

For the six new Amherst Writers & Artists facilitators I’m training this weekend and next… to your own writing and that done by participants in your workshops!

(for Sue Reynolds on her birthday)

The day you turned 2
Paddington made his debut,
a stowaway from darkest Peru,

the tag on his jacket reading,
Please look after this bear,
with the sweet face of one who

tries so hard to get things right,
like you, dear Sue, who does
try, who does get things so right,

whose great heart, like that
of the little bear with the red
wellies, does good and more

good, again and again, thank
you for looking after this bear,
after me, with so much love.

The coming cold creeps into the house
on dewy feet of cats as they push
through the swinging flap,

arriving with the damp of overnight
sprinkles, leaping onto the bed
to imprint you with the beginning

of seasons when your feet will
never be truly warm, when you will
look for soft places to curl up,

petrichor wafting off fur reminding
you that, oh, there will be so much
more of this. Time to make soup,

brew your favorite tea, and remember,
though you can barely recall them
all winter, that hot days will return,

your lizard self will luxuriate outside,
your hands will plant growing things
in sun-warmed dirt, just as one cat

settles with you now, burrowing
into that space she favors, right
right behind your curled-up knees.

(in memory of Dorothy Hoffner)

She flew out of a plane,
104 years young,

not her first sky rodeo—
she’d made her first jump

at 100—and wanted
to soar earthward again,

which she did, saying,
Let’s go. Let’s go, Geronimo,

diving headfirst, her instructor
tandem’d to her back, executing

a perfect forward roll before
freefalling to earth. She died,

apparently in her sleep, nine days
after her historic jump, not looking

for fame or to set a world record,
which she likely did—just to fly.

She said afterward that she’d
like to ride in a hot air balloon,

which might perhaps be her
next sky journey, rising slowly

in a wicker basket suspended
from a colorful envelope,

ascending with a great
whoosh of fire into

whatever comes next.

•••

(104-year-old Skydiver Dorothy Hoffner died Oct. 9, 2023.
She would have turned 105 on Dec. 17, 2023.)

I watched my mother get airlifted
and zipped into a Mom-sized cocoon
today, which is—trust me—not
the most unusual thing she’s

done in her lifetime’s research
as a holistic health nurse. A
young woman named Chloe
tucked a soft blanket over

my mother, who installed
a nasal cannula for her hour
of pure oxygen. She’s her
own best guinea pig, eager

to try any manner of healing
modalities in her quest to
improve her dimming vision.
Though she’s not a deep-sea

diver with decompression
sickness or a burn patient,
a British study reported that
Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy

also has anti-aging benefits, filling
the blood with enough oxygen
to repair tissues and stimulate
collagen production, which, at 92,

she is all for. All that is to say
that today I saw my mother
smiling up at me through a
window in a long, plastic tube

as, all tucked in, she prepared
for a little snooze—a Mom-
sized caterpillar in a space-age
chrysalis, hoping for radical

transformation. And after
she emerged, walking slowly
toward me, still smiling,
I could see the wings

she has grown, lifting,
ready to carry her butterfly
self wherever she wants
to go.

(for Sue Reynolds)

When your Canadian friend
sends you home with two
plastic bags of mint—

one full of leaves for
steeping, the other
dangling hairy roots

for planting—you
make a pot pf tea
the first night, sipping

in her honour. On
the second day you
take trowel and hose

and foam kneeler
to three different
spots in the garden

and commence with
prayerful planting:
Please let these

newcomers snuggle
into this foreign soil
to make a home, safe

from mint-loving cats
and other critters,
long enough to weather

winter, spread their
roots and grow into
mojito mint that will

remind you of your
green-thumbed thumb
friend a whole continent

away who sent you back
to your land carrying
flourishing bits of hers.