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In March, after you’re gone

I mourn you now as the
Rites of your passing let
Me, permit me to mourn
You, completely, a little
At a time. Mourning, it's
A process, I say, a little at
A time but in all this time
I have mourned you, not
Completely but a little at
A time as I lost you, not
Completely, but a little at
A time. All this time when
You were still here yet not
Completely you, I mourned
You, losing you as I did, a
Little at a time. I mourned
Through laughter and tears
That never completely fall
As you slipped away, lost
To me, lost to yourself, you
Are gone now, passed from
This realm, no longer lost,
As you were when first I
Mourned you, yet lost to
Me. I will mourn you. Now
Featured

Mourning

I will mourn you when
You're gone, and those
Rites of your passing 
Allow my grief out from
The volcano the furnace
The seismic pressure
I am holding together
While you live each day
As less of who you are
Diminished, diminishing 
Lost but still here, still
Mine, not fully mine, and
Not always lost. Still
Funny, silly, bitter, and 
Yes, still sweet. My love
No longer the helpmate,
The lover, the champion
Of our lives. Still lost. I
Will mourn you now and
Then. I will mourn. Now

[Originally written May 27, 2024, but posted in November 2024]

Winged flight

Hubris, crash and burn,
Fly too close to the sun
That's what you get, it's 
Just what we expect, the
Consequences of ambition,
Overreaching brings you
Down. Down to earth, but
How is that bad, it is
Just where you belong,is
It not. We are all bound 
To the earth, earthbound
And destined to walk, not
Fly, walk, one step upon
The next. Humble and down
To earth. Step by step.

Duck duck ducky

I was the goose to 
Your gander. It is 
A past only in this
Funny way, calling
Myself a goose isn't 
Serious. It isn't 
Meant that way, of
Course. It's meant
As a funny. I was
Never your goose, 
My gander. I am not
A goose. I am very
Serious. A woman of
Substance. And you
Cannot have been a
Gander. Geese are 
Squawkers. Ganders
Too. Of course, they
Are. They are geese 
Are they not, my duck!

Wiser

Am I obliged to offer 
Advice or brilliant
Perspectives, because
I have lived longer?
Am I presumed to be
Wiser or more full 
Of the beans of my
Expertise, the pearls
Of insight? I know
No more than you, do
I? I think not. It
Is only time that is
Unwinding my thoughts,
The tangle of ideas
That I could ignore
In my youth and must
Now respect unraveling 
Like a landline's cord.
It feels like knowing
About landlines, that 
Having used one many
Years ago, for many 
Years, makes me the
Wiser one, one who 
Truly knows more than
You, or you or you.

All grown up

Do you remember her as
A quiet bundle, new to 
The world and small; you
Have seen her since, at
Eight, her knees scraped,
Shorts torn with patches
Of dirt, then defiant 
At 15, tossing her hair
Angrily? Do you remember 
The baby in her swaddles? 
As if no more than a week 
Had passed since you held 
Her? Your grown girl has 
Her own little one now, 
It's the way things turn

April gets a bad rap

The lush young flesh pot
Of a season starts in 
March's shadow, answers 
To the call of the rain
Filling the soil with a
Promise of budding new
Sprouts and blossoming
Flowers, brightening in
The sun's light, touched
By its warmth and by its
Brilliance. It's April
When hopes rise and buds
Bud, April so intense it
Scares the poet into a
Reverie over power and 
Longing, into accusations
Of cruelty and need. April,
The gentle month, ushers
In summer's tranquil ease

Together. Alone.

In my widowhood, we are
Still a couple, a couple
One of whom has absented
Himself, you know who you
Are, we were two, and so
Close in everything we did,
I am doing some of those
Things alone now. I am a
Widow, without that guy I
Miss, when will I, will I be
Just me alone, doing the
Things we, a couple, had 
Done, me alone. Not a widow
A single woman, who will
Not forget who you were or
How it felt to do those 
Things when we were a couple
A single I on her own, with
Memories of all the things

Summer’s ending

Shorts, sandals, boys to
Men would never have when
I was a girl. Not shorts,
So unAmerican, not macho.
No sandals either. Times
They've a-changed. We're 
More cosmopolitan. More
Comfortable. Wearing out
The summer in shorts, a
Little casual, a little
Self-conscious, cooler
Then when I was a girl.

April, a poem from another season

Is April the cruelest month,
As the poet, himself cruel,
Perhaps accustomed to expect
Or accept cruelty, is known
To have said? He was quoting
Or he was riffing on a poem
In honor of the month, but I 
Quote him- not his source, 
Perhaps his source as well,
'Wan in April' to quote the
Original, but my more modern
Poet, he saw cruelty in the
Waiting, the expectation of
Renewal, the palpitations of
Spring's generous reawakening,
It's anticipation of bloom 
And of boom. April is said
To be the month when young
Men fancy and heads are turned
In the hope of romance, or
Perhaps lust. Can that be 
Cruel? Or is it what all the
Talk of the birds and bees
Prepares us for? Is it cruel
Or is it a moment of joy in
Which the blood is surging,
As adventures lie ahead, a
Time when even the old are
Young, ready to bask in the
Sunshine of high spirits, to
Allow our hearts their desire
To fill our head with song
Until we say 'Yes' and bite
Into the peach, humming the
Lovesongs of this time, or 
From our youth. April is not
Cruel; it invites the tulips
To peak out of the dark, to
Emerge from the loam, or to
Share in the warmth of the sun

In the Fall

There's an exciting clump
Of trees, all huddled in
An intimate group, green
And lush. They won't give
Up their colors or shed 
Their leaves like tears 
When winter approaches.
Others will turn orange 
Or deep dusky red, but not
They whose deep emerald 
Tones keep their branches
Warm and protected in all
The seasons, throughout the Year, spindly yet thick, as
They are thick as thieves
In their cozy embrace