The Opposite of 8

My daughter and I hold hands
walking
on the way to school
along the muddy gravel road
strewn with layer upon layer
today's dead
piled on yesterday's
piled on the day-before-yesterday's
dead leaves.
A pastiche.
A heavily shellacked collage.
She chats merrily,
unaware of the morbid turn
my thoughts have taken.
This road is built on the bodies of the dead, I think.
Just like the famous road through Siberia
where the dead bodies of the laboring prisoners
- thousands upon thousands of people -
were just packed in amongst the layers
of rocks necessary to build a road
so that fools with fancy motorcycles
and video cameras can prove their ability
to travel to the edge of the continent.

She is swinging my arm so enthusiastically
I have no choice but to listen.
Ogres and gremlins, um-hmm. Hiding in these woods. Yes.
(Maybe we are not thinking so differently after all....)
I would not miss this fragile moment:
eau de decomposing leaf,
crisp air, wool sweater and this person,
the embodiment of life.

Reflection on Transparency

When my body dissolved
I was 21,
new in a strange city
and my younger sister
had just died
opening the door and walking through it;
taking most of me with her.
I continued being a housekeeper
and going to grad school
but no one seemed to notice
that at an accidental touch
their hand passed right through
my skin and bone.
Often I felt like a balloon on a string.
People thought they were talking to me
but I was really hovering outside myself above.
Unable to get back in.
The longer I went without hugs or touch
the further I drifted
from my corporeal mooring.

I accosted a young man
who had been kind to me in passing
one day after work I begged him for a hug,
which he awkwardly obliged.
I was beyond caring about perception
it was all about not slipping away entirely.
Not waking up involuntarily invisible.

It took 9 months - a gestation,
to earn a friend worth hugging,
someone to tug me down
and back into
these outer trappings
everyone puts
so much stock in.

Fall Equinox

This farm is like a favorite uncle's coat
full of pockets
filled with the oddest assortment of unexpected treasures:
a fig tree, a raspberry bush, a guerrilla grape vine,
bonus pumpkins, self-seeding tomatoes, blackberries, blackberries, blackberries.
And did I mention blackberries?
Garlic so strong that tears will be shed,
and colds will vanish.
Ladybugs that rise up from the earth
to consume vast quantities of aphids,
garter snakes who sneakily devour
the slipperiest slug
and many other slugs who are not the slipperiest.
Swallows! Hummingbirds! Frogs! Kingfisher! Heron!
Bats who silently blanket the air above the pond, barn owl, barred owl -
even the darkest pockets have their treasures.

And I, daily small enough
to wiggle, happily adored,
into the safety of these arms
this farm
and rifle with delight
through all the pockets.

Dreamtruth

Last night I dreamt about the water mountains
in Chiapas.
The misty air is filled with rainbows
and the noise of pounding flowing water;
rivers which sculpt rock and paint it
with calcified limestone
so creating a perfect mirrored surface
in the idle spots.

I knelt, scrying into the clear pool
seeing jungle details; clouds billowing above
boulders framing
and my own
overlarge ears
delicate long trunk reaching out
to touch the glass
making it ripple and momentarily dissolve.

Suddenly aware
my knees are aching
I struggle to stand
like a calf again,
instead of a matriarch.

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.