Snow on the ground
sun in the air
birds crowd the feeder
in noisy chaos.
This is the birthday of
a former lover now gone
from my life, tomorrow
of an old friend now gone
from this world.
Two names on a calendar
of birthdays that elicit
only memories now.
People wander in and away
I continue to feed the birds
the sun continues to shine
or hide, snow falls then stops
years roll along piling up in drifts
behind me leaving me
wondering whose name
will mean what on that calendar
this time next year?
Tears frozen on the tips of my eyelashes
I trudged through snow-laden woods
my dogs and Mr. Kingfisher exuberant
and dashing as always.
Voluptuous moon
Marilyn Monroe of moons
stole my heart last night.
Two hawks wheel overhead
a pair of bluebirds flits and darts
two wrens sing a little something.
All these I’ve spied in one January week!
Birds pairing up, it seems, for spring
as I dream up Valentines
for others to send.
Empty teacup at my elbow
Sun pouring through the curtains
Dogs snoozing on the clean bed
Red monk smiles from the wall
My pen scratches across paper
I gather myself for this day that
arrives as always with arms full
of small packages for me to open
if I have my wits about me.
In another life
I shall be a chickadee.
I’ll wear the cap well.
My mother and my aunt traveled together
with girlfriends when they were young.
Canada, Lake Louise, Banff, Lake Michigan.
Photos show them on beaches laughing
gay carefree my mother beautiful.
Fur coat, marvelous hats, the velvet beaded jacket.
She lived at home, spent her own money on these things.
I remember the words Baked Alaska, chateaubriand.
Cigarettes smoked on the beach, escapades
in Ginny’s car, Bridge Club luncheons.
When my mother was old, her memory failing, it was this
time of her life she seemed to remember best
always with a fond smile. Her young woman’s freedom.
She married my father, left St. Louis had seven babies
in ten years. Gone were the hats, the two-piece bathing suit.
She sewed clothes for us on a tiny budget.
I cannot say how happy she was or wasn’t.
If you love a one
oh how lucky for
the thing of loving
is itself a wonder
a miracle
God.
A heart is to open
a hand too
and two arms
a dusty book
a closed door
a locked box
a suitcase with pockets
curtains at the window
a gift with a bow
a box of crayons
a packet of tea
your two eyes
the corner shop
a cookie jar
two arms
a hand too
and a heart.
If you love a thing love it madly.
Love it like a dog loves his toy.
Carry it in and out the door
bring it to the rug and rest your
head upon it while you nap
snatch it from the jaws of others
shake and toss it give it
a thrill ride now and then
continue to want and love it
long after its ears arms legs
have fallen off long after
you’ve pulled out its squeaker
and all of its stuffing even
when it is nothing more
than a rag, love it.
Love it love it love it.
And then love it more.