In awe of the ordinary
They are giving hugs
to twenty somethings.
A group of women
on the quad with signs:
Free mom hugs.
And a pair of black
and a pair of white
arms embrace
and tears give way
to sobs and this
momentary mother
guides them to a bench
where they sit
and quietly talk
away the tears.
The tree came down
in pieces, a limb
at a time, smaller limbs
then, at last, a section
of trunk split in two
during a wind storm.
It’s the tree our son
planted when he was six,
a little twig of a thing
on the hill below our house
and to our surprise
it grew, overreaching
the fence thirty, forty feet
before it came apart.
Can we cut these branches
that have overshadowed
our time here? Do we
remove what remains
of this life that has grown
alongside us? Is there
no way to mend what
has been rent from us?
The saw slips from my hand.
I am making toys the way
he used to by hand. Dad was always
handy that way but in retirement
handier still making toys. a cradle
high chair a little desk for grandkids
our kids and others and when he died
there were leftover pieces of barns
old timey cars a side-rail truck
and trains. The man could make
a train! Big and small from different
woods with track for little hands
to push them round and round.
Here I sit at this workbench
our first grandchild on the way
and I am wearing his shop apron
a skin that’s too loose a fit
sitting on his shop stool surrounded
by parts of toys he cut out and piles
of sawdust he began over 30 years ago.
Now I measure mark and cut then
glue leaving remnants of myself.
They come at dusk
as dark and graceful blurs
erratic butterflies
at supersonic speed,
the order Chiroptera,
feeding on buzzing clouds
of pestilence and human
ignorance for we fear
what we cannot see
and what we do not know
listens and finds its way
through the night.
Jets trace heavenly maps, boundary lines
between countries that fade and vanish
while all across the bay boats pave new
roads (one, two, three, four lanes wide)
with roundabouts and oddly angled
intersections while deep below
are unnamed cartographic wonders.
We are poor explorers with just enough
courage to do the easy things:
climb the highest mountains and dive
to crushing depths, yet, we fail to explore
human geographies, the unseen realms
deep within us.
This is how Sunday
became baking day.
Saturday is when I make
our bread, sourdough
or multigrain or both,
but our son called early
seeking advice on a tricky
bathroom plumbing issue
so I’m loading up tools
in the back of my car
to go help an engineer
who still calls an English-major
father to conspire on certain
home improvements.
Listening to baseball
in the yard, we two,
citronella candles
between us for light
as peepers & crickets
provide a summer
play by play.
On my way to the store
this morning I drove over
a fresh set of tire tracks,
a neatly drawn pair of S’s
across both lanes leading up
to the edge of the sidewalk
the dog and I pad each night,
a cursive note of caution.
Grey and rainy,
too cool for May.
It’s a drear
I can’t shake off,
and the weather app
shows clouds and rain
for a week,
the full seven days week,
followed by partly…what?
Sunny or cloudy?
You choose. I can’t.
It’s rainy and grey
with a chance
of partly something
too far away.
I see you,
an outline,
a shadow
of who you
really are
so I send
a prayer to
the light
to cast
its eye
your way
Finding words
I can live with
and leave
on the page
is that moment
when the sun
breaks through
the clouds on
a rainy day.
I close my eyes
and smile. I
can’t help
but smile.