Legacy
Maybe it’s a legacy from my grandfather,
this urge to work the soil.
To nurture young seedlings
through wind and heat.
To stand in the sun
and revel in life created,
or mourn its loss.
To harvest, as days grow shorter,
the fruit of summer’s labor.
To share and preserve it
against long winter’s night.
To await the warm breath of spring
and begin again, as he did,
this enterprise of hope.
Wild Woman
Today, I hugged a tree
Not just any tree,
But one in the park
I’ve befriended — tall old spruce
Trunk so vast my hands don’t meet
When I encircle it with my arms.
Once, I wouldn’t have done that
The urge was there, always
But the scared, buttoned-up person I’d become
Wouldn’t let the wild woman in me out
So I sat with my secret longings
And wondered why my life was so damned dull.
Maybe it’s something that comes with age
I’m virtually invisible now
And nobody cares what I do
So why not hug a tree?
Why not dance in the rain?
Why not burst into blossom
As I’ve always known I could?
How Good
(After Mary Oliver)
how good
it is to look up at night
and see the stars
arranged in their ancient patterns
when all else seems unsure
they remain — steadfast
in their glistening
how good
to look out the window
one winter morning
and see the world transformed
all sharp edges and brown gloom
blanketed by fresh snow
glistening in the early sun
how good
to gaze into the eyes
of one you love
and see that love
reflected back
joy rises in your heart
to see its glistening
Comfort
I must have cried out in the night,
Disturbed by some bad dream
And coming into consciousness,
Saw my father sitting beside my bed
He didn’t speak, just sat there,
And I could see the burning ember
From his lit cigarette — the smoke from it,
Which I usually waved away in disgust,
Was sweet incense to me in that moment
Small girl in a big bed — I closed my eyes
And drifted back to sleep, comforted
By his quiet presence beside me