Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Small poems: end of the year

faux woodstove surprisingly I do feel warmer

your footsteps overhead my favorite sound

morning walk counting steps counting breaths losing count

found: 2 lost mittens one purple one black

just me and my yellow shovel then along comes a crow

relief      finding a tissue in my coat pocket when I need it

she and I and the last two bowls of holiday soup

football game muted she dozes

from across the room your gentle snores

reminding myself I am only me

not for another year pumpkin pie

tomorrow I will wear striped socks this is all I know

over the long weekend we have both gotten blinder, deafer

stretching my ears for birdsong

anticipating snow I gather a pile of un-read mystery novels

every day waking to irises painted on my bedside table

my sister alerts me to a PBS special our shared nostalgia

grandmother's spoons I could use them if I polished them

my old jewelry box filled with toothpicks moving on

crossing an old bridge I can't ignore the rusty patches

morning walk welcoming the solstice exhale

at the window all afternoon lazy and content

yesterday is (almost) forgotten now here comes the sun

grandmother's photograph sometimes I forget to look

dust! impossible to blame the sunlight but still . . .

you wrinkle your nose this new tea is not pleasing

Buddhist monastery plastic orchids in window boxes

my neighbor's leafless tree adorned with Mardi Gras beads

flickering lights in my neighbor's window — remember fireflies

December 25th hour after hour candlelight

silent street no bells no crows

for this one day disconnecting from the world re-uniting with myself

10 minutes from home surrounded by a different silence

all day alone with a book and a strand of new/old pearls

with no effort something tight becomes something loose

singing a sweet song about my amygdala-dala-dala

embarrassing to admit: stargazing makes me nervous

early winter recipe for a plum pudding I will never make

narrow path stepping aside to let the old runner pass

this long red light enough time to inhale winter

what will I learn next — basket weaving? archery? the art of letting go?

what if I had had a brother — what then?

late afternoon too lazy to move from chair to couch no need to move

nothing is meaningless not even this empty pen

jump-up-kale so much like baby palm trees my neighbor's winter garden

this life every moment every moment every moment

paper and ink hold the mysteries   writing in the dark