Category Archives: Gratitude

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

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

Gooseberries

It's of gooseberries I 
Am thinking, out of the
Blue, or reminded by a
Pastoral image of berry
Picking in an imagined
Hamlet. That activity, 
Village and all, are on
My telly, the scenic
Quiet of these little
Towns, the rural peace
Disrupted by murders, 
The mayhem soothing as
The vision of thin red
Berries on thin green
Vines, the berry bulbs
All even and perfect, 
Sour or a tad bitter, a
Bright, beautiful color

Connected

The neighbor's dog comes
Running to greet me, my 
Heart leaps, recognizing
Connection. All creatures
Large and small, as that
Sappy Brit put it. I saw
The TV series, never did
Read the book. My thrill
As I pet her head is also
Sappy. Sappy and happy at
Her enthusiasm, bestowed
Quickly, and forgotten as
She trots out to sunshine,
A happy tail still wagging

I look at the skies

You know, I look out at
The sky. It's beautiful 
Again. I have seen many
Skies as beautiful and
That look like this sky
The clouds, the setting
Sun, all configured as
If mathematics were part
Of the equation at this
Time of day, to mark the
Falling sun, the close of
Another perfect evening.
It will not be the last I
See. There will be many a
Sky as beautiful as the
Perfect sky was tonight

Overhead

The clouds, full of themselves, 
Puffed up like cotton candy,
Looming overhead, more tasteful 
Than that sticky carnival abomination 
The sweet powdery stuff children 
Love and adults allow 'cause it's 
A special day. The clouds are
Always special, gracefully sitting
Overhead, puffed up but not so vain
As to make more of themselves
Than is appropriate and seemly