Ten-plus deciduous,
mixed with a few evergreens:
more than a dozen
shade-givers are seen
from my back window
in the sunset’s glow.
All wrapped as she plays
improv piano.
Life’s good,
and you grow,
when nature’s understood,
and when you know.
It’s not knowledge gained by some parchmented degree.
It’s what people, plants, air, earth, water, life, daily give to me.
When your life is lived/
environmentally, each/
day is an Earth Day.
Decades passed since I/
cleaned the Milwaukee River./
This Earth Day, I plant.
To capture nature’s/
true beauty, you may need to /
kneel down in the weeds.
I responded bad,/
before I’d read her, knew her./
I feel ill and guilt.
Pre-made cookie dough,/
a drying Tannenbaum, she/
plays Yule songs. All’s right.
It might be time I/
stop guessing what gifts I should/
give. I’m not that good.
OR:
It might be time to/
stop guessing what gifts to give./
Seems I’m not that good.
=============================
When you’ve blown someone/
away with a gift, it’s hard/
to ever repeat.
==========================
Folks should know: When they’re/
not enthused getting gifts, the /
source dries up quickly.
It’s been so long
since I’ve done
what I should do,
daily,
that I’ve almost forgotten
how;
I’ve almost forgotten
why;
I’ve almost forgotten
who I am.
Because I became
because I did
what I was asked.
Because I struggled
even when the words
weren’t flowing.
Because often
the mere fact of
doing the thing
that you’ve been told to do
is what you need
to discover
and maintain
who you are.
So once again I launch
back into my Obama-era goal:
Write
and blog
a poem
or prose piece
each day.
The words may not be
insightful
or deep
or moving.
Or they might be.
Most importantly,
they will be
and are
who I am
and who I will be,
so as long as I write
and post
and am,
I exist
much more deeply
than I ever did before.
Maybe that’s why I feel
as though I’ve gone
into hiding.
Look out!
How many mistakes/
must I make? How much must I/
wait? Or should I go?
It was too late
to think,
I think,
nor to read
what I should not.
But I thought,
and I did,
and now I can’t stop
thinking
the thought.
They play
like an ear worm,
the terrible tune
you hate to hear,
but once it blares
you can’t get rid of it.
I’m
not
hot.
Not in that way.
The things I “fix”
don’t stay
repaired.
And there are so many
now, in this new place,
that I can hardly imagine
trying
to catch up.
I don’t even write
or work at what I like
any more.
I’m a bore.
So I sit and binge watch
and pretend
it’s teaching me
about government
and choices
and I’m spending time
with her.
But our gazes
go forward
into a large
rectangular
black hole,
where we watch others
play out on the screen
and even panting
and depanting
and a black bra
only brings groans
of boredom
and remorse.
Then,
when we’ve watched
and thrown away
three hours
(or more),
we kneel
and thank Him
for us,
and ask
what we should do.
I don’t think that’s it.
And although I now feel glad
that I’m writing,
divulging,
creating,
it still feels
like I should go
cover the garden
against tonight’s frost,
fold up the electric cord,
and try to tidy up
the front porch
at least a little,
so maybe,
when tomorrow’s beams shine brightly,
I’ll feel like doing something
that will move the needle
at my house,
my home,
my refuge.
And I’ll remind myself
it’s not a contest
with the past.
If only
I could now,
at last,
believe that.