Emigrating

Emigrating

Back and forth we pump our legs,
my daughter and I, together on one swing,
husband/father on the other.
We swing toward each other and away again
toward each other
and away again.
He nods and we all stand up in unison.
We have practiced this at home
until we dream about it
but only he has ever made the leap before.
My daughter and I hold hands undeterred
by the multitude of observers below
and the distance
and the incessant force of gravity calling out
like the Lorelei to hapless sailors.
We focus on continuing to swing.
He nods again
and we swing forward, forward,
forward,
we leap
are caught and catch ahold
the bar is solid beneath our feet and we are
one on either side of him,
who faces where we've come from.
And we all swing together
shaky but triumphant
knowing grace is purely a matter of perspective.
From below we are seen as clowns, buffoons.
We honk our rubber noses and flap our arms in confirmation.
Audience laughter floats up
like the screams of shorebirds
dive-bombing a garbage barge.
But from here, to me,
it seems we are, all three,
capable of miracles.

For Your Birthday, age 7, November 4th...

On the day you were born
I wore an old sweater
that once belonged to my sister.
And a rain hat hand-me-down
from my grandmother.

I was braiding slippery strands of kelp on the beach
to see if it could be done.
It was overcast and beautiful,
all the colors so vivid and fragile,
with the world in turmoil,
and the smoke from September 11th
still a haze through which we wandered aimlessly.
Grieving.
A handsome buck froze unafraid
standing in the road ten feet away.
We chatted with two seals
who were treading water in the gentle rain.
And after the rain?
After the rain,
we saw a double rainbow over the harbor
portentous and magnificent
so we knew something was happening
somewhere.
But all the signs
were in a foreign language.
And I am painfully illiterate.

And it wasn't until a couple weeks later
when I got the call,
and then the package of pictures of you
at the hospital, with all your vital statistics,
it was then that I knew:
It was you!

A Warm Fall

In these uncertain times
when the yellow jackets swarm at the front door screen
thumping their Bibles
and the mosquitoes lie in wait
along the shady lane,
it is then that I long for the swallows,
who have flown early, on instinct,
for more stable climes.
Balance eludes us
in this stretch of bonus summer
so gorgeous and so necessary.
There is growing, yes,
but it is eclipsed by excess:
beans on the vine whose rotting tips touch the moist ground
mushy blackberries dangling like sickly ornaments
apples corpulent beneath their trees
the rat dispatched a week ago on the path to the outhouse.

And when the cold snap comes
and the election too,
then things will be decided
(and decidedly colder):
yellow jackets will hibernate in firewood niches
mosquitoes will drop like alder leaves
blackberries will drip to the ground and puddle in the mud
bean vines will be ready to feed to the goats,
who are bulking up for winter coats
and the lesser of two evils
will lead US.