SEASONAL AFFECTIVE

 

SEASONAL AFFECTIVE

It always happens when there is too much 

light, too much pollen, too much 

of everything. 

The birds sing me awake. 

The leaves are closing in. 

I get tired. 

I can’t digest. 

 

All my life.

While my sisters played on the porch

I hid in the meadow.

While my friends splashed in the pool, 

I climbed the outcrop to be alone.

While my colleagues ate eggs and muffins, 

I sat on a green bench by the river 

to pull myself together. 

 

And now, this terrible year, 

when there are no parties to avoid or dread, 

I’m weighted down by the heat, by the sun. 

Like a bear, I could be in a cleft in the rocks, 

asleep until snow, 

until mornings are quiet and dark again. 

Until there is nothing to eat but roots and bread.

words: Nesting

NESTING

 

wall

kindle

fragile

flight

 

This morning, something— a gesture?

a word? a scrap of dream?—kindled

a yen for flight beyond   

these walls of age and time 

and choices made. But I remain, 

grounded in every sense, rooted

in a garden of my own construction.

 

A robin is building her nest

outside the window of the room

where I write, shaping the sticks

and grass with her muddy breast.

In the budding lilac, her mate sings.

If fates and jays agree, nestlings shall fledge,

fragile as imagined wings.

words: untitled

cheer

fizzle

green 

seat

 

Rain, nearly snow, yet

the robin speaks of spring,

of blue eggs, of cheer.

 

Who am I, to let hope

and joy fizzle away?

The lilac is sprouting green,

 

the muskrat, seated

by her reedy lair,

is washing her face,

 

and in the gray dogwood,

the yellow-throat

has found a starting place.

NAME THAT ROOT

NAME THAT ROOT

Knobby, greening,  hard white twists sprout in spring.

Planted, they draw stripy bugs who leave orange eggs

and thick red larvae that squash to a gooey mess.

 

Their poisonous leaves  draw spores of blights.

They soften, slime and perish.

So basic their absence can mean famine. 

 

Growing them is a chore, a back-breaker,

but in late summer, grabbling them 

with your grandchild means a feast.

SILENT

SILENT

. . . it is better to speak,

remembering

we were never meant to survive.

     ~Audre Lorde

 

And yet. . O yet, there are times,

this time, closed and tight together

or closed up tight alone

when it is better not to speak

to another, to ourselves,

of the distresses of mortality,

deprivation of company,

the small irritations undispelled.

 

Truth is speaking now—

her own voice 

pushing through cracks 

in the crumbling

towers and walls,

rising like magma

from the beaten ground,

spreading like water

and flame,

claiming her spaces

like returning birds.

 

For awhile now,

it is better

not to speak.

For awhile

to open

to her voice.

To be silent, 

if we would survive.

words: Now

wring

blossom

restore

coat

 

NOW

 

Oh, stop wringing your hands.

There’s not a thing you can do

to restore what you foolishly thought

was normal. There is no such thing

and never was. You can’t bring back

a past that didn’t happen. 

All of it, all of it, every year of it,

every moment of it, is a construction 

of your wishes and beliefs, of your fears. 

 

Put on your coat. 

Go out into the world.

Listen to the song sparrows 

claiming their spaces. 

Look at the scilla blossoms

under the gingko tree— 

you say they are blue,

but who knows what they say 

about themselves?

Words: April, First Peepers

blow

flip

scope

quicksilver

 

APRIL, FIRST PEEPERS

Just after dusk,

the moon was already high,

its quicksilver light

rippled in the brook

that flips along the edge 

of our scrubby woods.

I heard one peeper,

then another, and another, 

blow their wild love song

to Spring, to the world,

oblivious of the scope

of our human cares,

oblivious to everything

but their need to go on.

APRIL FANTASY

APRIL FANTASY

 

The sun used to shine early every morning.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

And the breezes were very gentle from the south.

 

I would stand on the front step and breathe

the air scented with white daffodils.

A bluebird would light on my shoulder

 

and whistle in my ear. I’d go inside

and make breakfast for the family

and we’d sit around the table

 

enjoying wild raspberries and cream

before we went out into the world.

I’d have another cup of fresh-brewed coffee

 

in the garden, and then the bluebird and I

would clean house with the other birds,

all of us singing all the while.

Words: Poetry Month, Second Day

 

bark

swim

respect

launder

 

 

POETRY MONTH, SECOND DAY

Bake the bread, brush the dog.

Feed the cats. Respect

the times. Comprehend

this chance to prove yourself.

Have you noticed 

that wet pine bark is purple? 

In the cold night rains,

the spotted salamanders rise up

from the muddy ground,

and slither to the pools 

where they’ll swim out 

their clouds of eggs.

It is Spring, despite everything.

Wash the walls. Rake the lawn.

Launder the sheets and

hang them to dry in the sun.

 

APRIL FOOL–and it’s Poetry Month, once more

APRIL FOOL

 

The trickster dances

through the opened fields,

scattering ticks. Maybe

 

later, snow. Lately,

they’ve been playing

with a germ, teaching

 

us that we need

soap and friends

and fewer things

 

than we thought.

That we can bake

and ponder. That

 

the world is very

small.