Grinnell Oak Tree

It wasn’t an owl I heard this time
just the wind
winding its hollow way
stirring up a lonely moan as it passed.

The moonlight cascade
held in the chill
and
preserved the stillness
of the snow suffocated ground
not interrupting.

The clear night hung stars on the branches
of the trunk I leaned against for comfort
from the silence.

I stood my ground,
and poured my warm, moist breath
into the wintery air.

Country Roads

for Christina 1996

It is vivid in my mind
that day.
We set out together
with little to say.
It was almost Thanksgiving,
or the day had just past –
doesn’t matter.
You and I walked down that road
to the end of worlds.
It wasn’t raining.
Not raindrops;
Not balloons.
The sky was bright.
You didn’t cry.
I didn’t know what to say,
or how to touch you,
or if I should.
I just waited.
As we walked back,
we sang about being taken home by a country road.
It meant something different to me than it did to you,
That sort of going home didn’t make sense to me then,
doesn’t now.
Even still,
as we walked,
I believed you,
with all my heart.

Contained

in mind of a painting of poppies

Behind the walls of proper black dresses
With minimal lace or adornment
They stand in the shadows
Near the windows.
Past the windows, out on the field
The tomato splotches of color
Lean in the wind
Ruffle the petals
Stretch their stems.
Corsets made from the skeletons of sea monsters
Hold rigid the human stems
Plucked from the valley
Before they blossomed.
Flowers picked by
Fragile, milky hands,
By bodies bent stiffly downward to reach them,
And then wrapped in green waxed paper to look
Innocent.

Neatly clipped flowers in tight lipped vases
Do not grow so well.

Autumn Leaves in November

Perched on my knees deep
in Blackeyed Susans
hair dances on sun brushed shoulders
I close my eyes in the
Yellow of the world and
wait to capture the wings of secrets.

There are only murmurs of the wind
and faint whispers of leaves
as soft and elusive as Baby’s Breath,
in a place that does not want to be
silence.

A stream trips over fallen stars, and
water drops taste like April air.
I almost do not see the road until -
running -
Artemis flies past me on it,
She once turned to beckon me.
No longer.

The voices are autumn leaves in November, and
I have forgotten how to listen.

Yet,

Sometimes,

The dew drops still smell of lilies.

Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens

Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens
- as he might have written in the fall of 1682 after learning of the death of the latter

My Dear Laurens,
I wrote once,
back in the year 1779,
that “though I am cold in my professions,
I am warm in my friendships,”
I wished that it might be in my power,
by my devoted actions rather than words,
to convince you that I loved you.
I thought I hardly knew the value you had
taught my heart to set upon you before you left for the war.
In truth, I did not know it until the event of this greater leaving.
Indeed, my friend, it was not well done.
You know of my strong desire to
Preserve myself
free from any, particular,
attachments,
to keep my happiness independent of the caprice of others.
My friend, you should not have taken advantage of my
sensibility,
and steal into my affections without my consent.
But, as you did, and so thoroughly,
and as we are generally indulgent with those we love,
I did not scruple to pardon you then,
nor do I intend to do so now.
Did my last letter reach you too late?You might have found it amusing.
- my resentment of your marriage –
The Great Alexander Hamilton,
acting the part of a jealous lover
in the face of an unkind god.
There is one comfort I suppose:
At least you and I can both rest knowing
the history books shall likely never mention it.

A Reading Kaddish Reading

When the sky turns that color
you just know it never was before,
and then throws streaks of light toward the universe,
before it fades into dark promises;

When the air is whisper-silent,
before the birds, after the stars,
and clouds begin to give way to faint, lemon light,
chilly even in summer;

When children are running and dancing
through sprinklers,
and squealing at the grass between their toes,
or giggling at water splashing their tummies;

When during the hakafah a baby holds out her arms,
cannot reach,
and so instead blows kisses at the Torah,
even though no one near her is paying attention;

When you are standing in a minyan,
surrounded by Jews and Tradition,
and the cacophony of voices that wrap around you like a tallis
is somber and strange;

When you remember not to forget me,
say it with some joy, some wonder, some awe,
and heartfelt gratitude.
You are praying on my behalf, in appreciation of my life;

And I for one, am glad I was here.

A Message

Our self worth,
Like a lost bargain,
Easily made and
easily broken.
Are we to become creations so
remarkable
that not only is the making a lie,
but we ourselves,
even We
aren’t true?

You must wonder with me
After awhile,
how we get back outside
back in the sunlight and the
rain,
to deal with the painful truth that
it’s practically a miracle that there is
anything
of anyone
Left.

I don’t know to whom you are
selling,
or what is your profit.
All I know is I want you to
Stop
selling my name.
I am afraid it is me,
who is seller and
buyer,
hiding behind a back numbed by
Novocain
I administered myself for no gain,
at all.

And you ask me what I think
about being softer and smaller,
if I care
that my lips aren’t plump enough,
my eyes not wide enough,
my nose not petite enough,
my chin not tight enough,
my brows not plucked enough.
You want to know if I’ve “got milk”?
I want to know if you can still make it.

Reaching for time is all I know
and the light
behind the window
is growing dim
with age and
weariness.

The arrival of a plan is
past due
and it is we,
not you
or I
who were to be midwives to this delivery
after all.

Our expectation was no
Accident,
there is no fooling ourselves or
excusing ourselves from the
Responsibility.
I will not rely on those who require
the commitment of others.
The worst kind of thieves,
believing themselves to be
the best kind
of women.

A Little Corner

It’s not very elegant, for a garden,
no loud, fragrant blossoms
Interrupt the quiet.
It looks like chamomile flowers
smell - still and silent as the moon in its pause
before the Journey back.
Minty green tiles cool
tired feet.
Creamy benches and tree pots
sigh and dream of summer afternoons.
Dewey walls massage forehead muscles.
Eyes drip closed,
lips curve,
and my mind softly whispers thoughts to itself.