Home

There’s a poem in this place,
in the not-quite-silence of the early morning,
in the constant companionship of the ticking of the clock,
and in the furry paw falls across the laminate floor.
It is here where a woman writes a lyric she no longer whispers to say.

There’s a poem in this place,
in its second-hand, blue collar grace,
in its well-worn wooden things and well kept lawn,
and in the backyard garden boxes engineered by her youngest daughter.
It is here where she has planted roots.

There’s a poem in this city,
in these tree-lined, bicycle-ridden streets,
in the laughter that makes its way through the open windows, lighter than the air,
and in the warmth in the smile from the elderly woman across the street.
It is here where her heart became full.

There’s a poem in his eyes, always,
in the way she says his name,
in the history they hold between their hands,
and in the future for which they know only one certainty: together.
It is here where she knows home.

Seasons

Freeze from sapphire heavens creates white earth,
melting to steady rain, sparking rebirth.
Soon, sun burns a fierce smolder,
long days turn to nights colder,
as colors fall, fading, crackling last mirth.

*An older limerick resurrected in celebration of the start of my summer!

Breathe

I close my eyes,
breaths slow and regular as I listen to the sounds of life around me;
the hum of a boat engine gliding across the lake,
the sputt-putter of a jet ski‘s playful path,
waves crashing and lapping at the shore,
the low murmur of human chatter,
of belly laughter and the overflow of children’s giggling

I allow my mind to catch on to one or two of the intimations,
savoring them,
and then releasing them back to the great wide open

with each breath,
I spread my mind wider and wider around the abundance of life,
until I inhabit every space of it in my slow breathing

I am the low rustling in the treetops,
the splash-pushing of the gliding of the paddle,
the buzz-buzzing of the bumble bee hovering around the wildflower,
the vibration of electricity in each heavy footstep upon the grass around me,
the calming sway and then peaking of the water on the rocks,
the throat-pulse of every living thing

I breathe,
feeling the life inhale and exhale through me,
absorbing the familiar thread that connects it all

Lemonade

when life gives you lemons,
make lemonade,
they say

but what if life gave you
a lemon tree,
and the lemons just keep coming?

what if, try as you might
to take in stride each bearing of the fruit,
and you make and make and make
lemonfuckingade,
but you just get tired?

you tire not only of the lemons,
but of the knowing more lemons
are surely going to grow,
of the knowing that you’re just going to have to keep on making
lemonade?

I suppose you should accept
that this is your tree,
and it’s yours to harvest whatever
may come from it,
whatever blooms from the manner
in which you fertilize it

but sometimes,
it just sprouts unexpectedly,
and you just want to throw lemons

look out