after this ending another ending

after this ending another ending
we only want so little
we're given even less 

after this ending another ending

plans flaking hope

escape again

after this ending find another story

another beginning 

--start again

after this beginning another beginning

another erasure

a do over 

after that ending yet another ending

dawns hide in the night

in the gallop of sleep 

excerpts from panic attacks

my heartbeat is hardening

I'm magnified in my smallness

*

I think this happens to me

I find this happens to everyone

*

the day is full of promise

that breaks over and over again 

*

I'm comfortable (in distance)

I'm complete (completely exhausted)

*

first I try to tame the animal 

burrowing its own trench in my heart

*

next I begin to tell you 

the stories I need you to tell me today

*

deeply rooted

kindness is a common form of love

the drip of its tap like heartbeat

its tempo rowing in place

I can look down at myself 

how I've thought I knew it all-- 

now I fit in whatever comes my way  

sifting the hard cuts with a soft care 

for moments turn meaningless

without my memories

like spring soil I keep

holding on, I hold nothing back 

honestly, all I've taken is inside myself

so here we are

I always misunderstand "a perfect storm" as a good thing

the rain descending as a blessing, lightning as fireworks

the flood muscled and insubstantial as a willful idea 

also time bears no shape whether watched or hourglassed

so tell me how we've spent these years trying to change 

our fate, how we believe we aren't a twist of... faith

we may have forged only paper boats for these times

but then they don't have to come back to tell us

we already know there is no tempest or tide 

maybe like the earth

ask me what makes a good day

as the heart hammers away

nailing today's sum of green

applauding how the light falls

all the way to the ground

exploding into green joy 

I know I too am someone

a body not just an accident 

 pronouns greening like weeds

everywhere like my prepositions

across and between and within

--little words louder than we think

------------------------------------------------------

Pic: Scout posing (as awkwardly as one of the human kids) by the cherry blossom trees.

there's no sadness in spring

this is how it is some times

the edges so sharp they cut 

through inertia and errands

the days passing like hours

how green aches into limbs 

darkness detailing the edges 

tight with herds of budding 

water cold, crunchy as glass 

I'm the only one here alone 

and I think I spy on myself: 

What will I do next? What

if I make a sudden move?

Pic: Red Cedar River seen from MSU's campus.

the struggle is surreal

this door I'm trying to close quickly

knowing you're trying to come back

touching this emptiness to another

as open and unmeaning as chanting 

it's sadness so cavernous I can hear 

exhalations from your lungs empty

universes of understanding, fleeing

like meaning between our thoughts 

like a sunset stained on the horizon 

speech is clumsy and stumbles trying

to save us. And so we have words/tears 

and they fall--only one feels right as rain 

the bitterness of mustard seeds

"Men!" she says, rolling her eyes

sputters: "Think--even the Buddha causes suffering."

I heed her assembly of outrage

the mustard seeds going off like grenades in the pot

it is true, yes, no one is to blame

yet she's assembled a list of people who are to blame

she speaks for Kisa, the grieving mother

desperately asking the Buddha to revive her dead son

so imagine her chest and eye sockets 

hollowed out with grief, imagine her hollow voice

her feeling stupid at the moment of asking

if he could bring her son back to life... but asking anyway

what's the worst that could happen, right?

what if he were gathered into life? What? it could happen...

And to think of the coldness of his lesson plan

his moment of asking her back--to quest for mustard seeds

from a home unscarred by anyone's death

Where do you keep scars? Can he see or imagine hers?

See her desire colliding with his wisdom

see her as the collateral damage of this one's own theology 

He might say it's nothing personal--it's true 

perhaps exactly what's missing, in his insistence on moving on  

on nights there is thunder, there is rain

I feel this whole world as an angry woman I do not blame

as I lay me down to sleep

it's time for me to be embedded 
into the dark

it's time to kneel at night's altar
quieten thoughts

to swallow answers into silence

and survive 

for I'm too wild for sleep to be

anything pure

in a season of dependence

over here, I'm trying to find the language we lost 
we're the canoe and and I slipped the oars
while asking questions
we're so small

strangeness crawls up my arms, nestles by my ears
little baby bugs overflowing their home 
telling me their stories
about being better

because we cannot know what we do not know

and we're flooded already with memories

we imagine how it will be 

without us 

that canoe thawed free from direction and labor

swept up in the recovery of unknowing

finding new neighbors

in sea and storm

"I get sprung"

The crocuses are here and... Big A is here!! It's also pretty sunshiny out today and students' research work is coming along nicely. (Not my research work, but--you know--one can't have everything.)

Anyway

let's begin once upon a time, with a house

we can fill it with hope and surprise

(we raise our eyes to the sky in greeting

use whatever rains down as anchor)

let's begin far, far, far away with a feast 

we can open mouths wide in laughter

(we press bites and bruises into pretty fruit

after we steal some answers and quiet)

A Gentle Reader

A Gentle Reader

I say a prayer--for books to carry me

imagining ballads sweet at lunchtime

in an inventory of lives, distant loves

and for plain books to cry to at night

how light is soft and rich like a fire

how it smolders at the beginning

how embers fade like falling love 

stranded in the chaos we've made

we think wars are everywhere as usual 

within and without--as we like to say--

see shields surrender, becoming songs

in books that have already cast me out

Pic: Hyacinths, heady with scent, are coming up all over the house in various pots and things I stuck them in. (Here: game table in the tea garden; our outside is still wet and muddy.)

(I love big cities but) I'm glad I'm home

It's a daily becoming

telling life from sleep

the memories wakening

overnight just like magic

It's still drizzling when 

I return four days later

like early spring weeds

my body a little sapped

but still strong, unbroken

as a promise once made

without noticing, tasting

a bit sticky... & unspoken 

#Atlanta

appearing overnight

I used to climb black trees in my childhood

knowing leaves then as outbound beacons

who taught me places I know only now 

I twisted my braids with longing 

My arms become spears of bewilderment

they branch into wild whitenesses

prickle open rooms of secrets

stake it all so I can see

This morning I reached into another day
to eclipse gravity, light, and language
beloved, who is this wild animal 
with its tiled back turned

mouth around your moments of darkness
whisper to me the place it came from 
why does it watch for you to sleep
creep glances to your chest

[unfinished]

Note: Woke with the image of a beast looking down at something it held in its hands. Unsettling. Had two hikes canceled (snow + wind) and people's moods at home went up and down all day... I'm glad today is done. 

the return

home seems habitual

the way it sings to us

tells us special things 

no one else will

the joy of sitting here 

ruined with utter love 

or something edging

it up until 

the singularity of life

skimming the years

dims these currents 

into standstill

so we jump narrative

rewind our best parts

outside the visible

--ask for a refill

Pic: Big A is back! We were at our desk trying to work on a project, but Scout and Huckie thought they needed to check in on us.

wild and precious time

I chuckle/howl/bawl-ed so hard at this one.

I love Mary Oliver's "The Summer Day" poem so much and love that other people love it too and love that it became something people passed around in the pandemic. I mean there's apparently a whole Pinterest section on it.

But this Sarah Lazarus take on it is hilarious. We have literally been using this line of inquiry to make decisions on birthday plans, vacations, work duties.

Travel, especially, seems to require some unsentimental evaluation. I have some coming up: an honor society meeting with students early April; a site-visit for the big NWSA conference in May; and... do we dare plan a non-US family vacation in June?

prayer in March

Here I ask the seeds 

to push past mud 

to present hope

watching how answers 

in every fresh year

lie about

this yearning for mottled
softness to appear

under trees

Note: I liked the idea of using "past," "present," "lie" etc. as seeds that could be read in more than one way.

Pic: Our tea garden/my happy place. I have the remnants of my birthday flowers... but also a late amaryllis, and some early cyclamen, bougainvillea, begonias, hyacinths, and crocuses coming up! 

the wearing (and eating) of the green

At came to dinner after ages, and although we don't "celebrate" St. Pat's day, I appreciate the Irish so much for their anti-colonial struggle, especially as they shared that liberally with the Indian freedom movement--there's a reason our flags are nearly identical, right? 

Anyway, I had a dinner of mostly green veg, Irish Champ, and green cupcakes ready, but Big A and At missed each other by seconds. Nu and At found an episode of Derry Girls to rewatch, and they picked the one with the Ukrainian exchange student because...

Photo: Our entryway Ganesha has been decked out in some gaudy green this month.

Sadly, the family photo isn't here 

Sadly, the family photo isn't here 

the child mounted the front steps

as his dad stepped into the garage 

in timing orchestrated sitcom style

time pleats like a fin on a paper boat

as today's yellowing sun is ripening 

they are learning in a city of twilight

how to travel on paper boats that trail

hellos and loves in their soggy wake, 

the ridges now closing over; just water

thawing pains

the day's a disaster though

its song summons laughter

rolling like water over sun 

blinking on/off like a halo

snowy realms are escaping

vulnerable with empathy

whole worlds liquefying 

like tears into spring mud

Scout hands his paw to me

warm as a steady blessing

while I lie to my mother:

saying everything's alright

Pic: Neighbor CC's from her canoe on the Red Cedar

coming back in years

linked as casually as a road
hissing between this city and the next
then linking onward to the next and the next

 

alone we are born and in tears

then relate to mother, grandmother, another

extend our miniature bodies with immense hope

 

and always love--growing ever greater,

even greater than life--we may never speak

again, yet our echoes surrender new conversations