All is so very right with the world as
my Peter’s love is lovely loves him
loves my dogs spreads her kind attention
nicely out around and about to All
a bright presence an iris I think in the world
of flowers tall elegant hardy classic and
as to birds let me see no cardinal
not the female anyway she does not hang
back but oh yes a chickadee most definitely
a chickadee out and about and unafraid.
My ex-patriate son comes home to me today
from Scotland by way of India and Boston
bringing with him the girl he intends to marry.
A momentous day a milestone a first for our family.
My hopes are high and wild—
that she loves me and I love her perfectly
that they are perfectly happy together
that my son bears no heartache ever after ever
that their life is graced with contentment.
I will hang a welcome banner
turn on the party lights
fix Peter’s favorite dinner
play Latin music as usual
pull out photos, games, his childish artwork,
crack jokes, tell stories, listen well.
How could she not love me?
Sky brightens after last night’s rain
a slow crescendo of light through my window.
Train whistle blows over beyond and on
and on farther distant through and past
our town romantic as a thing can be
as if these are the days of train
whistles barges and ships as if
there are not cars rushing by on a highway
not so very far from here after all
as if women and men still wore hats
carried umbrellas as if we all
still danced in pairs wrote letters
with pens on paper as if this
electric clock at my elbow did not
flash red numbers telling me I must
go and do the things required by
modern life.
I had not seen one in a long time though
I always check that particular bend
in the creek up in that big tree knowing
very well no one likes to be caught offguard.
Today my dog saw it first on the ground
and raced forward. Only then did I notice
a large barred owl rising into the air
and landing in a tree not so very far off.
We had a staring contest, I through my
binoculars, he with his superior vision
and when I took a step forward he
took off again, clutching a prize in his claws.
We had interrupted the morning hunt.
I always marvel that I am so enchanted
by these sightings while they must wish
never to see me again.
It is a day called Leap Day
a day of leaping looping landing lightly
jumping jaunty jouncing jolly
bounding bouncing brushing bristling
risking frisking kicking kissing
arabesquing alouetting pirouetting
jumping a turnstile a broomstick
in mid-leap breathing breezy
stealthy steamy whispering wisps of
laughing lastly catching calmly
caressing closely beautiful dutiful
abundantly plentiful air.
I do not count the days to the sudden
artificial lengthening of days no
instead I mourn the loss of a winter that
never was the perfect hush of deep snow
the feeling of our silly importances
at a standstill and by the way isn’t it
just as well to observe the gradual change
in light and dark without some unholy
arrogants deciding that on an arbitrary
day now this one now that suddenly
seven o’clock is six and yes
six is five midnight only eleven
the sun itself now rises and sets
(as they suppose) at the convenience
of Men? God save us! from their
terrible ridiculous pride.
I call my small red dog “Little”
sometimes because he is and then
even still at times just “Ittle” for short.
For long “Little Ittle” and then often
enough his own real name Rufus
a Scottish name for a scrappy dog
as in a feisty Scotsman and meaning
redhead, which he certainly is.
For formal occasions or for scolding
Rufus McGonagle and really for his
complete whole entire name
Rufus McGonagle Foley
which is nice because I never got to
name any of my own real babies
Foley but only instead by their father’s
surname even though I am the one by God
who grew them rather nicely within
my own body and that, my friend,
is entirely wrong.
And what shall we do
and whom shall we tell
when we do it and when
ever might we return
from the doing and the telling?
And why must we go and do
why must we ever leave
the poufs and puffs of pillows
the piles of down and feathers
the coze and careless comfort
of cotton silk and flannel
of tea and toast of the Lovely Sun
pressing against windows
wanting only to please come in
spread her skirts over the small
house and touch us gently with her
slender fingers?
The red monk and the Buddha
smile down from my wall.
I am no Buddhist but a considerer
of ideas a dabbler a dilettante.
Uncertainty seems to me more devout
than surety, openness more loving than
zealousness. I am perhaps an omnist
All Things possible, All but not One.
All feels right in my world my
small own bit of it at this moment
a foolish quarrel mended an old
ugliness patched sanded painted
prettily over, my sons’ compasses
pointing home and even if I wonder
what more I might want or need
at this moment there is nothing
in this moment and that is its
own beauty.