Thunderstorm in January not
the thing one expects not here
at least not in the Heartland &
I being of romantic nature like
to imagine it portends a Thing
that is equally unexpected possibly
poetic in the offing perhaps
a Thing of Rare Beauty about
to transpire a Something Unfolding
to uplift the hearts of the many
who are troubled a thing like
an orchid blooming on the scale
of maybe a tsumani yes a tropical
storm sized blooming of the earth.
Great blue heron perched
on a branch directly across the creek
drawn up into herself a sleek compact
oval of blue grey white and black
unmoving and I stood a long time
studying her wishing I could have a
closer look but as luck would have it
I had left my binoculars at home and
her privacy assured I reluctantly turned
away leaving her just as she wanted.
Alone.
No sun today no tiny speck of sun
that is to say no ball or ray that I can see
just piles and piles miles and miles
of cloud looking so heavy one
would think it might all fall
to the earth at any moment in
giant blobs and blankets
impenetrable
lying heavily over All
stopping All in our tracks
offering a perfectly good excuse
for eating sleeping and reading
this whole day right away.
Lovely old tree fell the night of the ferocious wind
across the path we often take catching young ones
and woody vines as it went scattering broken branches
all about and I wonder how it sounded how it looked
if the ground trembled as it fell if itself trembled
heaving up the earth around its roots leaving behind
a scarred tear and was it ready or nearly so?
Had it died last summer and I failed to notice?
Had the others paid tribute, was it loved in any
particular way by anyone in the way that I love
the four sycamores, the huge cottonwood that I like to
wrap my arms around, the perfect cedar skeleton,
the tree whose gnarled roots hang over the edge
of the creek, the ancient burr oak that
practically everyone around here reveres?
Was it? Yes or no it has fallen now across the
path barely missing the bench that was put there
in memory of some well-loved someone who
died too soon.
Dust off the books
polish the silver
wax the old table
something is in the offing
though I can’t know what.
Scrub the tiles
straighten the pictures
fluff up the pillows
shine up your boots
pull out a ladder and
clean the windows
someone is coming oh
something is looming though
I cannot say who what how
someone’s coming now.
It’s just a feeling an inkling
a prickly sensation a hunch
a suspicion a gentle tapping
and it’s saying Get ready get
ready! It’s on the horizon over
the hill at the brink coming in
for a landing a something
a someone
soon
imminent.
Better get ready.
I will.
Bone deep exhaustion landed me
in bed before nine with a wild
wind for my lullaby and now I’ll
go out of my self and out of my
house into the world wondering
what I might see or hear or do
on this impeccably particular day
what might appear arise
accost my senses
hurl me forth to imaginings
of tall ships and elephants
sights unseen dreams undreamed
a cortege of angels following
wordlessly above hovering
thither and yon traversing and travailing
waxing silently poetic about
whomever whatever
and whyever not.
Ferocious wind blows as if for
the Day of Reckoning and it is
January again after being April
the last few days. I would like
to change my own identity too
as well as readily from one day
to the next.
Marilyn Monroe Monday
Julia Child on Tuesday
Jane Austen for Wednesday
Marie Curie on Thursday
Maira Kalman Friday and Saturday
Anna Pavlova on Sunday
all only -esque of course
my own real self at the core
changing only my bent
my joie de vivre my passions
attitude attentions and affections
for one thing and another and that
certain way of being in the world.
Actually it sounds exhausting so maybe
I’d just as soon carry on as always
striving to be better rather than wildly
different since after all we do all shake
our heads at this crazy weather.
January one day April the next and
January again after that. And I
wouldn’t want to give anyone a cold.
Pink orange coral ribbons cross
a lightening blue sky behind the stark black
chaos of bare trees and I wonder why
I am not up before dawn every day why
I am not pouring these colors those shapes
into my small brain for safekeeping
day upon day upon day why
I do not lie on my back in the frosty
grass gazing up at the black sky
with all its stars and its moon why
I do not keep myself in the small room
of four sycamores gathered together
there where they reach up courageously
higher than I could ever dare climb
why I am not there now why
I was not there ten minutes ago why
ever other things seem more pressing
more important more worthy somehow
easier to lose.
Spidery shapes bloom within
the thick layer of ice on the creek
laid down these last few frigid nights.
Now the pendulum swings again
as warm days seduce hopeful
baby shoots into poking their heads
out far too soon. My own head
stays buried beneath a stubborn
resolve that may or may not
serve me well.
Shall we mightn’t we risk
everything in this one short
life we have here right here
right now? Mustn’t we
love wholly this perfectly imperfect
world those flawed wandering
souls that grand old tree that
tiny finch the very songs of All?
Must’t we love All
in the fiercest possible way
give our whole tender hearts gladly
wrapped triumphant in knowing
that this risk this love this tearing
open to reveal a beating heart to
give All while we can in this
brief slip of time is the grandest
most best onliest chance we will
ever have to be real human beings?