A Few Words to the Magician:

A Few Words To The Magician:

Small dog with a huge heart,
you remind me of my grandmother:
once a small woman with a huge heart.
Now, same spirit, different form;
different plane entirely.
I do not confuse the two of you.
Some of us are so compact
it's hard to imagine the magician
who packed your bag of tricks.
The courage of a thousand men?
Let's give that to the hummingbird.
You see? For some, it's all stunning surprises.

I am not like my husband's Blackberry,
a wondrous instrument
filled with surprises.
I am a typewriter:
you press the key,
you get what you see.
And sometimes
I get stuck.

Small dog, how do you fit "faithful", "loyal",
"courageous", "adventurous", and "comedian"
all in that same frame:
lithe muscles and toothy grin?
Grandma, how was there room for cancer
in the limitless love of learning,
the curiosity and gratitude?
Who invents a toy that is also a computer and a phone,
(and don't forget a camera!)?

Next time I'm going to stand in the long line
filled with spirits who request a compact
instead of an Oldsmobile just because it's available.
Next time I want people to ooooh and aaaah
over all my quiet fireworks, the limitless scarves,
the doves that fly out
whenever I lift my hat.

Church on a Sunday in May

I am on my knees
in the loamy soil
wrestling thistles;
rescuing the strangled garlic bulbs.

By the sweat dripping onto my glasses,
by the sun baking the small of my back,
by the dirt on my face,
in my hair,
by the blister on my palm
from the trowel handle:
I am baptized.

In the name of all that grows and changes
I witness the power
of the smell of apple blossoms in clean air.
I witness the power
of bean seeds to break apart clay, seeking the light.
I witness the power
of a small green frog to make a joyful noise.
This is my testimony.
Glory Be.

Immigrants to Waldron

Like dandelion fluff we arrive
on this remote island,
step out of our gear,
turn and gather our parachutes,
slap each other on the back, wise-crack,
and begin to notice our surroundings.

Like dandelion fluff of old,
now called "Waldronites"
we hail from everywhere
hitching the prevailing breeze
among the kiting vultures
and the ragweed pollen.
On our meandering route
the air was thick as rush-hour traffic
but gusts appear and disappear
- apparitions of off-ramps and carpool lanes -
and suddenly
here we are.

In this delivery:
one from near Toronto,
one born close to the Arctic Circle,
one from California,
and one from Guatemala.
With determination
we set about creating home.

Dear Teenage Daughter,

Imagine a seed
with the potential to change the world
encoded in its tightly packed genetic makeup.
"What kind of change will it be?"
we might mutter as we gently
gently
pack dirt around it using only our fingertips
then spray a mist of water over it
to moisten the soil
then place it on a table in a sunny window.
We read to it, tell it jokes, sing to it.
Wait patiently.
Until one day it reaches through the dirt
toward sky
and the whole world holds its breath
as you climb.

Small Prayers

I am sending small prayers out
into the atmosphere.
Little wishes
flap like butterflies
in all directions
guided by that invisible force:
the wind.
Although
it could be
hope.

Madeline Moss

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!