This Exact Life

More Than One Basket Can Hold

2026-02-11T22:48:00.000-05:00

This morning in late August

we have finally turned to the private churning

of the Earth's surface and the space between here

and the edge of the sky's great clouds,

into the hanging willow branches, light,

bouncing as a young girl's long hair,

charmingly remembering

in this braided chill undone,

the aching for frost and shivering

sweater weather.

It is almost pleasant to wallow in the sheets

too cool against my skin like a first light swim,

too cool to be alone in my bed and fend off the fields

of worries of winter in my mind.

The patter of a soaking rain,

mourning doves cooing, over,

and over and over.

I return to that native garden of my grandmother

where hollyhock leaves are lacy brown

and impatiens and begonias overflow,

electric with color, the beginning

of the end.

Back to the darkness soon.

Back to school season with shoes on our feet.

Back to the clock and alarms

reminding us

to wake up

searching to find the cricket

of Creator's voice

in this open season,

making us more

than one basket

can hold.

2025-03-27T23:46:00.000-04:00

No Way

If only I could focus

on the gliding of these thoughts

over the enchanting machine of anxious grinding,

a corset digging her ideas of doom

into my ribs until I cannot breathe.

If only I could glide

enchanting and calm as a cloud

past the incantations of friction

between the graying moon

and throbbing gulps for air.

If only I could release

the grip holding on to the relentless hope--

braided and knotted to a broken life raft

that drifts into the deepest currents,

tortured and tumbling

with no words

or texture of language

to call for help.

My back to the truth,

I see all the exits

and no way out.

2025-03-10T23:41:00.003-04:00

Maybe This Is What Forgiveness Looks Like

Today redemption rose out of the ashes

in the parking lot at the grocery store,

without warning,

rescued me from the flames of my numbness

like a lesson out of nowhere, unexplainable ideas

looking directly in my eyes,

making me cry in front of strangers

and shopping carts,

reminding me of the liturgy of love

that walks anonymously on the earth

like every other human, lonely as a song,

broken from the lessons we were born knowing.

As often happens, the sky was clear as March can be,

sun warmed and melting like frozen and smiling landscape

into salty puddles near the edges of everything.

Mud can be washed away

from the metal surfaces that protect us

but, to be clear,

expect to get dirt under your nails

when you kneel

praying in the language of gratitude

for daffodils and small purple crocus.

They will be the salve that heals the lesion

at both your wrists and the bones of each ankle.

They clearly see the wound in your side

that everyone doubts really damaged you

beyond recovery.

Don’t be gaslighted. It is there.

Painful beyond anything you’ve ever known.

The miracles never stop delivering hope,

even when you least expect them.

Even if you are petrified of being forgiven.

Spend Time in a Field

2024-09-09T05:21:00.000-04:00

Leave the gate open

as the crescent moon

hangs low in the west.

Walk slowly on the path

past the pond

to the place you planted

sunflowers, cosmos, and zinnias

in May.

Though the pumpkins and butternut

have all been eaten by the ravenous whitetails,

the flowers have unfolded and the palette of purples,

pinks, yellow, and red glow radiant

as the light fades into fall.

I walked with my son into this field tonight

gathering armfuls of the happy faces of blossoms

into bouquets that will shine something like joy

into each of the days of the coming week.

Careful not to wake the occasional bee

curled into the petals we have picked,

we speak in reverent voices,

considering the trials;

the most common chaos

where God has forgotten the dust

she left in the corners

of anger, disappointment,

and the doubt of grief.

We stand together, silent

listening to the way night

opens the door

with barely an effort

or flicker of force.

Morning Pages

2024-09-08T08:56:00.000-04:00

Two broad-winged hawks

I spotted and tried to identify

in the green bird book,

perched in the dead branches

of the maple

nearly out of sight,

just at the edge of the field,

absorbing the heat of the morning,

just at the edge of this summer.

The grey squirrel's

staccato movements below

were just what the menu required.

Heads turned deliberately,

knowingly not giving away

their superior location.

It is slightly cool in the chair

next to the desk

in the dim light.

The season has turned me

to the larger mug for my tea

and the warmer red robe

the children bought

as an offering for my birthday

nearly twenty years ago.

From this perch

I can see the overgrown weeds

and cherry tomatoes dropping

in the diminishing garden;

the black-eyed Susans

drying on the stems

and fat marigolds

in all their puffed-up glory.

The clatter from the kitchen

and shuffle of old slippers

will not distract me

from these morning pages

while I watch twenty-five turkeys

gather, parade, and cluck

content and oblivious

to my admiration.

Three Drowned Mice

2024-09-06T06:53:00.000-04:00

In September

the rodents move in

from the grasses and sunshine

to the spaces between the walls

and floorboards,

carrying seeds and looking

for crumbs from the toaster

and the occasional ripening pear

or red tomato on the kitchen counter;

a prune under the edge of the oven.

Last night I trapped them,

drowning three

in a bucket in the basement.

They were not blind.

They used their quivering noses

to find the pasty peanut butter

on the can over the barrel

and fell

to their watery

deaths,

never to chase me in the night

with their scratchy scurry again.

Not one to ever nibble

through the crusts of the sourdough,

poop in the cupboards near the cups

and unsuspecting saucers,

or shove seeds into the toes of my sneakers.

Human 3, mice zero.

Better Sleep Is On The Way

2024-09-04T06:27:00.001-04:00

The sales girl tells me

she is the daughter of a dairy farmer

who died when she was four,

her mother never hugged her--

never.

"What's the matter with you?" she said

"Your mother hug you too much,

or not enough?"

How I miss my mother,

the way she smiled

when we greeted in the morning

with a song or like old friends

hugging tightly.

The memory of her strong

and careful little fingers on the lids

of my child eyes

as she gentled me to sleep.

"Better Sleep Is On The Way"

is the ordinary tagline of the mattress store

in tax-free Keene, New Hampshire.

Bea hands me a medium pillow,

and a paper doiley to keep

my braids from the fibers of the fabric

between petite me and each trial of comfort.

Too firm, too fancy, too expensive,

too bouncy, too plastic, too cold,

until we narrow it to two.

The mattress back home,

nearly twenty years my companion,

is older than any marriage or time

with a trusted lover.

The dip under my left hip

and the collapsing edges

have urged me to endure the banter

of the Providence accent

that has likely never

stepped foot on any farm.

"I'll take this one." I whisper in apology.

She has mercy on me.

Free delivery

and they will take away the body

filled with mites and skin

and all the stains of too many nights.

Guaranteed for ten years.

She hugs me,

calls me Honey,

offers me a butterscotch candy

on my way out.

They will deliver

next Sunday.

I will be ready

for the call.

Red Riding Hood

2024-09-02T06:40:00.001-04:00

Last night I woke,
voice stuck in my throat,
choking and tears unstoppable.

A shadow of a girl was climbing
into the bed with me
to spit into my eyes
and my open mouth.
Unendurable fear
of her angry saliva
damaging my innocence,
unstoppable.

My arms paralyzed,
body trapped,
I groaned awake
apologizing to the sleeping household
for my disruption of the peace.

"I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry."

My heart awake,
the mind wandered to the woods
and the wolf
where good little girls
in red hoods
doing good things
get off the path,
only for a moment,
and danger consumes them.

Snow (finally)

2024-01-07T21:49:00.001-05:00

Snow (finally)

It is quiet and fresh

like it is only when it snows

fat, fluffy snowflakes finally arriving

in January

after Epiphany.

We all wonder

knowing this is way too late

to wassail

and sing love songs

toasting the trees,

but after the collection of floods

and the heat of summer

we take this miracle

and hum to ourselves

like perfect amnesia,

welcoming the silence

like monks

on a Christmas morning.

Suddenly, my skittish cat yowls

outside my bedroom door

shivering from the exile of the night.

Her rooster ritual

shakes my limbic core

as she intends.

I throw off the comforter,

pausing my pen,

to give her acknowledgment

and access to my cell.

Satisfied with the return to routine

the feline purrs, then leaps,

onto the window sill to observe,

marveling at this swirling meditation,

answered prayer for substantial winter,

somehow,

a common revelation

in this unusual time.

In Search of the Moon

2023-03-19T23:11:00.001-04:00

In Search of the Moon (for my grandson, Otto Zane Carlson, born 3/18/2023)

We waited patiently,

made silent prayers and outrageous offerings

into the mouths of this slice of chaos.

Even now, we urgently want you to breathe in deeply, unafraid

laugh loudly, play endlessly in daisy-filled fields,

explore murky ponds and wonder between the lines of stories--

the way that boys do.

Your parents certainly will teach you what it is to be loved by the way

they look each other in the eye and at you.

Your uncles will hold you in their arms, murmur manly advice

about pocketknives, good farm food, Vermont style, music,

and, of course, will embrace you with all their hearts

whenever they greet you

for the rest of their generous lives.

They won’t be able to help themselves.

I suspect it will be your sister,

the girl you met today only hours after your birth,

who will pledge to carry your collective dreams

to the alter of the night sky

in search of the mysteries of the moon.

This common orb of delight and fiction as it waxes and wanes

reflecting the power of the sun,

will bind you to each other with silvery stitches

no matter where you are.

Heaven knows the promises you made to find your way to us

this time in a body immersed in infinite ancient memories

like a package hidden in the seam of a beggar’s tattered coat.

June 1

2022-05-22T23:47:00.002-04:00

-for Loren-

The sky opened tonight
to the summons of air
plush with rain like tropical wings,
fluttering and trapped
near the earth.

Cinnamon and narrow as a tardy boy
slipping into his seat unnoticed
I catch sight of my brother,
drifting spirit
at the edge of white oaks
near the old International.

It is nearly a year
since he planted his last gardens
at the farm where we all put our hands
in the dirt. Peas, beans, and purple eggplant.
Hot peppers and beets. Clockwork of the season
our parents taught us to love.

That memorial day, even he was unaware,

unprepared to leave the flock's formation,

tidy rows like our mother's

until he crossed the line

he had crossed so many times.

Flummoxed.

Cornered with no way out.

unforgiving--

He changed

his mind

too late.

Fever Dream

2022-05-21T23:33:00.001-04:00

After years of masking against the invisible enemy

the cough and fever consume me,

even my voice is gone

forcing me to bed.

It was the teenager,

fearless and determined,

who brought it home

just like a brutish friend

at midnight, fully eclipsed

under cover of purple gypsy music

or hippy long locks wailing

at the blood moon.

I gnash my mind

enrobed in weakened pride

that looks like silent meditation

while I wait in my sweltering sheets

for the rattling congestion

to collide

with morning tea.

I shuffle,

take fever-breaking tablets,

nurse warm liquids
into my raw throat.

In my broken dreams

I drive my first car, grey

on dusty backroads

in Minnesota

frantically looking for my parents

and my dead brother.

There is no forgiveness

for being this kind of human.

2022-04-14T21:29:00.000-04:00

Peepers' Love Song

It occurred to me at dusk’s dimming

that peepers in April

pledge solemnly,

with each note,

to love their bodies

and forget the tadpoles

that will shiver out

of their amphibian selves

into the bridge between frozen

and the tantrum of cattails

slime and sun

to grapple with time,

if only for a short while.

And we, who stand near

this stagnant swamp,

simply long to love

what is impossible

to understand

beyond the sweetest of songs

in this embrace

of spring.

2022-02-01T19:14:00.000-05:00

The Jar

Who were we

to seal God's love,

so warm and rich with the sun,

into the darkness of that jar?

Glory, we trapped it

in alabaster, cold

and life

less,

dared to preserve it

for some purpose

yet to be sanctified.

The treasure, exclusive,

guarded tightly,

abundance wasted

until she arrived

kneeling

expectant and knowing

her place.

Not silent.

Not invisible.

Not compliant,

but full of courage

to do what she could

to love with her hands

covered and overflowing

with the perfume of the dead.

More intimate

with this act of preparing

for the end of the body.

Courage to crack open

everything.

2021-03-14T23:56:00.001-04:00

Forgive Me

There are no alarm clocks in heaven.

No cold coffee warmed more than once in the microwave.

My father is always singing some Johnny Cash tune

and dances close with my mother

on the yellow linoleum floor.

In heaven, I don't have to drive an hour to work,

I can ride my bike.

Better yet, I stay home for a year,

dial in to find the records of someone who needs me

and poor souls can't tell the difference.

On days like today

God is watching me

as I swell with the quiet of my gardens

waiting to thaw and push daffodils toward the sky.

Last time I remember November

I planted 800 golden prayers of hope

into the earth to remember those who didn't make it

and to whisper "Forgive me" to those who did.

The aroma of the dirt from so many small graves,

secretly satisfying as I caressed each body to rest.

Today, after such a long nap

maybe I'm Rip Van Winkle

hibernating next to the maple

savoring the sap rising

knowing so many of us

will never wake up.

Here on Earth, we all eventually

just stop breathing

while the world goes on without us,

expecting those we love to be with us

singing like chubby cherubs

and holding our hands

and stroking our brow

until the very end.

Astronomy of Poets

2020-04-22T22:27:00.000-04:00

Look behind the sun

where light bends

space and time.

Theory is eclipsed

by the shadow of nothing;

the moon an accident

of our solar system

A task of poetry;

poaching metaphors.

To know the nature of humanity

collect flawed data,

mingle with starlight,

build improbable things.

Poet, pacifist

mystical death of impartial magnetism

and two languages

suddenly explode

become observation,

mathematical equations

only to discover

Hades has become ruler

of science spectacles

and the entire known cosmos.

Quiet

2020-04-07T21:53:00.000-04:00

We’ve abandoned the streets, the shops,

in this storm of invisible fear,

tiny monsters in the closets

of our minds.

Save us as our senses

jolt and ask us

why we have waited for so long

to shut the door to our inner chamber

to sit with our turmoil

and just listen.

What is being asked of you

in this calm before the storm?

Why do you tremble

in this quiet night,

moon pink and full of life?

Is it your heart

telling you the truth

of the Earth

resting like an exhausted mother

so sick and tired she can’t breathe

without crying out in her sorrow

for all her creation.

If we could hear this whispered prayer

with our bones and the touch

of the clearing air on our skin

like a creature deep in the sea,

our wisdom might wash us clean

like no other time

God has known us

into being.

The Call

2020-04-03T14:48:00.003-04:00

None of us can ever really be ready for it,

the incessant ringing telling us

a fragment of our heart

has gone missing,

vanished into thin air

with one last breath.

Each loss examined in the past

with the brute force of the Soul

doing all it could to stay present;

flexed muscles ready to bolt,

is forgotten as we are cast into quiet chaos

by the reminder of our fragile veil of skin.

Today, when I thought the coast was clear,

that the medicine and mission of the medical world had worked,

the attachment to the delights of life was solid,

a Beloved is taken into oblivion

by sacred words

we cannot translate.

This might be the greatest sin of omission,

where God and all that is holy

takes us by the hand

and leads us all into the darkness

with no navigation system

and throws us into the rocks

we had no way to see.

“Trust me”

has no meaning

again

as we call out

looking for a friend.

Odyssey of Waiting

2020-04-01T23:11:00.005-04:00

Thoughts aflutter,

mind restless and feeling cooped up,

I settle on a jaunt down Sunset Lake Road

to loosen my knotted head.

I swing my arms to free the riddle

of wanting to organize the spaces and time

gone wild with meddlesome clutter.

The floor covered with sorted papers

and one too many unused printers,

gifts to be given at some unknown celebration,

wrapping paper left abandoned by my daughter

like a shipwreck of white and gold,

and the cards and letters never written

to a forgotten sweetheart or father and mother

passed away.

All these must go into files or to my son’s new apartment,

to the recycling or 2^nd hand stores to peddle unmercifully to others

so they might lounge on someone else’s shelves

an odyssey of waiting

only to stop the madness

of what could be

hoarding

everything sacred

if left to no devices.

Move like a woman with purpose

to any pinnacle on this journey

but to the heap that will not be quenched

by shuffling to a new corner.

My nervous memory

prompts me to pitch everything overboard

and start fresh as some new fiddle tune

at the summer Solstice contra dance.

The Power of Words

2020-03-31T23:13:00.001-04:00

It takes a miracle

to produce a word.

The human mind and body

must work together in harmony

to find the truth in a sound.

The thought moves freely

like a fish through a net

into the mouth and throat

with lungs and jaw and tongue

working stealthily to cross the threshold

of the enlightened and luminous lips.

The callous brain of an adult

thinks nothing of their language.

A simple “good morning!” or “more please”

when the coffee arrives hot

and vital to waking up
are results of years of training

for the average American mind.

There is no room for “Buenos dias”

or “buongiorno” for us. That door is closed

like a border during war time.

We’d rather go on and on and on

without a second thought

about nothing
in English.

It is as simple as A, B, C.

Even a baby rambling on to her mother

with joyful expectation of breakfast

and banging her spoon on the tray of her highchair

knows the power of “Mama” by the smile she evokes

and the power of “NO! No! no!”

The Last Day of March

2020-03-30T23:30:00.001-04:00

The last day of March
drags her feet as slow as death
out like a lion.

Waking Up for Nothing

2020-03-29T23:19:00.000-04:00

Time is a luxury we’ve all longed for,

our most precious gift

of assurance that we mean sometime,

have something to do to prove ourselves

worthy.

And now, with so much fever to worry about,

we blush to get ready for the camera

at our home office—

polish, powder, paint

applied with a feather touch,

with care to flirt with what was,

in order to get through another day.

We ache for the touch of reality

that gives us something to wake up for,

something face to face

that helps us know

we are alive.

How the Bird Catches the Worm

2020-03-28T23:23:00.000-04:00

It happens every spring;

a sacred offering to the God of Winter

who must surrender,

eventually,

to Spring and the light

of a new moon.

The robins return with purpose.

Their red breasts blind with intuition.

They tilt their heads as if deep in thought,

waiting for the ground to tremble;

maybe even slightly quake,

brilliant divination beneath the skin of the earth

to find with that frisson of wisdom,

the worm,

slinking and submerged from the beak

and almost hidden

from the thrill of the hunt.

This Simple Prayer

2020-03-27T23:06:00.003-04:00

Let me be tender tonight

and release my hold on the world

that cannot be held.

Let me surrender tonight

and let desire cry for my attention

in each sacred moment

of looking at the flames and confusion

and picking up words with gentle hands

to share in a poem like communion

or a call from a beloved friend

that chants in earnest to God

and all the angels.

Let the subtle work of silence

consecrate my mind and lift my heavy heart

toward the most holy light we’ve ever seen

in the faces of the others around us

as we become family begging for more.

Let me place my hands palm to palm

resting on the edge of my bed,

quilt soft and colors fading,

and pray the prayers of a lonely child,

I will be sated with simple words

that tell of the truth of love that lives

in the eyes of a stranger

and in the songs of the children

I have always loved.

Who Would Have Expected?

2020-03-26T23:48:00.005-04:00

Who would have expected

the essential would come to this;

the potent power of distance

to heal these vernal times

before the frost leaves the ground

beneath our feet?

In our grief of everything we have lost,

it is somehow too soon to reminisce

about the way we were before

the earth swooned with fever

and coughed herself

to nearly death.

Stand too close

and the heat of virus

will seep like and echo

weaving back and forth like a shuttle;

madness has you imagine the worst

of the stranger you’ve never met.

Stand back.

Stand away from the flames.

Don’t get too close.

Expect the unexpected.