Güd wrtr

Love’s arrow pierces,
not always in the romantic sense,

but always square in the heart,
injecting sweet venom that,

if we are lucky, fills our veins,
infecting us with so much

affection for this one and that one
and that one, our dearest who

split us open, spilling oodles of
tender love crumbs, like

the ones pouring from me now
for you and you and you,

beloveds with equally adoring
hearts who send it right back,

one continuous comet of love
trailing across the universe,

circling through our bloodstreams
now and always,

amene.

And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

—Wendell Berry, from “The Wild Geese”

•••

(for Dickie on his 81st birthday)

Even on the coldest days, when our feet,
no matter how well socked or booted,
never quite get warm,

we find what is needed close at hand—
another hand to warm our own,
a steaming cup of dreams,

books and food, perhaps a whiskered
friend to settle on a blanket spread
across your lap and mine,

passed down through generations,
perhaps a bit frayed on the edges—
like us—but still capable of coziness,

every loosening stitch a wee bit
of love sewn into the very fabric
of ourselves, right here.

(noun: German (zane-zookt) yearning; wistful longing)

We hear it in friends’ voices in the coldest places,
in regions where they’ll be lucky to see spring

by May, that wistful longing for something
not icy and cold, or even just wet and cold.

Done with the flannel gray skies, the frost
crystallizing outside glass, the having to chip

ice out of the birdbath so they can drink, the
daily refilling of feeders for the feathered.

We do this—yearn for what isn’t, for what was—
this humanness of hankering so tugging at us

that we walk by the window and miss—look!—
droplets stretching into delicate-bulbed icicles,

the doily-like flakes decorating leaves,
starlings squabbling, their dark bodies speckled

like snowfall in these just-hanging-on months,
hungering in more ways than one for

the sustenance to come.

•••

Inspired by this video, “Winter” by Jamie Scott

•••

“Her words, written to bridge the gap between us, cut through space and time.”
— Genevieve Kingston, “She Put Her Unspent Love in a Cardboard Box” (The New York Times)

(for Georgann)

I have her letters scrawled in her
never-warm flat in Swansea, penned
at the kitchen table near the small box
on the wall that gobbled pence like
peanuts, then spit out meager heat.

But she loved Wales, cherished her time
as an older student attending university,
her barely teen daughter at the local school
down the lane, uniformed and learning
Welsh, the California kid coming home
one day to proclaim, Nigel fancies me.

The onion-skin-thin light blue page
that still folds into itself unfolds
her before me, and I strain to read her
scrawl. Once, I didn’t have to. Her
words leapt off the page like sweet
fleas, attaching themselves to my
person, never to let go.

If you write to me, I’ll be your best friend.

It’s her handwriting on the blue
aerogrammes that brings tears,
along with that of other companion
spirits—their fingerprints, long gone,
infuse the paper, their words
nip my flesh in all the best ways.

Letter by letter, we assemble building blocks
that tower, that align, that make our lips
purse with sound, that we spit out as words

linked like train cars, coupling and un-,
rearranging into sentences, paragraphs,
pages that, written down or spoken,

become language. Yours might be quite
different than mine, but words make meaning
of the world—your vocabulary landing

like music on my foreign ear, your gestures
visual expressions of sounds, phrases, names,
chugging past me. Never mind—somehow

I can read the grammar of your eyes, hear
the poetry in your voice. Let us find our
lingua franca, our common tongue,

and meet in a place of understanding,
this spot right here, as we stand together
on this common ground, my hand

clasping yours, the definition of shared
humanity. Then, in your own words,
tell me a story.

If you plant them, they will write—
or so you hope, tending the crop

of tiny pencils-to-be,
imagining the little sprouts

growing up to color the world
in so many shades of green,

testament to your devotion
your love for the drawings,

the words, the creativity
to come.

For years I looked at the waxy blobs
sprouting green stalks from the top,
often wearing little collars that said,
no watering necessary,

which made no sense, conditioned
as I am to watering outdoor plants
for more than half a year and indoor
ones till I drop. Or they do.

But the waxed amaryllis contains
the promise of frilly blossoms if you
just set it on a table, not in direct
sunlight, and turn their bulbous
bottoms every few days.

So I brought one home to watch
the miracle of a living thing that needs
no help from me to thrive, to grow tall,
and, when it knows that it’s time,
to burst forth in petaled profusion.

And now on the dining table stands a
ballerina with gorgeously long legs,
en pointe, of course, her frilly tutu
blossoming creamy with scarlet streaks.

Hello, I say to her as I walk by.
Aren’t you lovely?

And, shy, self-contained thing that she is,
she doesn’t say a word, just stands
a bit taller, as I admire her elegance
so unexpected, so fleeting.

We often imagine ourselves
on the upswing or down,

forgetting that point in the middle
where we are neither up nor down

but doing fine. Better than fine.
And even on the most difficult days,

let us imagine ourselves flying upward,
arms flung outward, ready to embrace

all that’s right with the world,
praising that which we can’t see,

that which supports us, even in midair,
as we keep on swinging, wearing

the brightest, biggest smile.

You think you want to tuck in for winter,
hibernate like the bears or box turtles,
as bats or snakes or bumblebees do.

But that means you’d have to secure
a safe sleep spot, store up a lot of body fat
(and no matter how much you think you

have, it’s likely not enough), lower your
metabolic rate, breathe once every few
minutes and pretty much turn off your

brain. Honestly, it’s a risky proposition
from which some creatures never awaken.
Instead, you want to be a chipmunk,

a semi-hibernator who tucks into a cozy
crevice or tunnel with your nifty stockpile
of nuts, seeds and dried fruit. You’ll sink

into a good, deep lethargy but awaken
every couple of days to perform obligatory
bodily functions and, best of all, nibble

your way through your stored stash
of snacks. Sleep, poop and eat. Repeat.
And when winter finally ends, you’ll

awaken so well rested you’ll stretch your
cute little legs and wiggle your sweet
ears and nose, look for a chipmunk

buddy or two and break into song—
chip chip, you’ll warble, bird-like,
leaping onto a seedy feeder to chow

down on a new season’s cache of nuts
and seeds, cheeks stuffed with goodies
as you dash into the blush of dawn

on a glorious spring day.

And there,

as the drops fall, I circle
the labyrinth, holding space
for a single pilgrim walking—

Blessings on your journey—

on this stormy Sunday that
couldn’t be more different than
yesterday’s blue-sky perfection,

today next to another impulsive
creek burbling its way river-ward,
when I see a flash of feathers—

a mallard pair floating gently
down the stream, tasting the
childhood tune on my lips—

merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
life is but a dream—

because it is, this dreamy existence,
one in which no boat needs rowing,
the female mallard leading,

her partner following their own
watery pathway, as I puddle around
the circumference of this life,

watching the wayfarer on
the labyrinth take step after deliberate
step on her pilgrimage.

I make my way to her, and,
as she re-enters the world,
whisper, Welcome back,

as her misty cheeks flush,
and the ducks quack their way
so very gently down the sweet,

rain-rich stream.