Most Plucky

I've shared this before (and in more than one version) but for some reason I want to share it again, today. It is semi-true and semi-not-true. 


On the long bus ride taking a few dozen soon-to-be-campers from the Bronx to the Berkshires, I accidentally sit on my eyeglasses and they break in half. I don’t tell anyone. I just dig my sunglasses out of my backpack and put them on. I keep them on, day and night, all summer long. 

I have a wonderful time at camp. Everyone is so nice to me. The girls in my cabin take turns being my best best friend. They fight over who will get to sit next to me in the dining hall or around the camp fire. When I say I don’t want to play volleyball or softball or dodge ball nobody thinks anything of it; they ask “Would you like me to sit with you and we could just talk?” 

When I trip over small rocks or fall into gopher holes no one laughs. I have two boyfriends who swear their undying love to me. Everyone laughs at my jokes. No one tells me to shut up when I sing “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore” out of tune. Every morning my counselor asks if she can braid my hair — she asks like it would be a favor to her, so I say yes. 

On the last night of camp there’s a big Awards Ceremony. Fancy-script certificates are given out for Most Athletic, Most Musical, Most Hot Dogs Eaten, Most Letters Written Home. I don’t expect to get anything. It’s enough to have had such a wonderful summer with so many good friends. But then I hear my name being called and I stand up, adjust my sunglasses so they won’t slip down my smiling cheeks, and walk to the front of the dining hall to receive my award. 

Everyone stands up and claps for me, all the campers and the counselors, too. The camp director hands me a certificate and makes a little speech. He says they’ve never had a camper like me before: so brave and inspiring, so lacking in self-pity. He says I’m the Most Plucky girl he’s ever met. 

And that’s when I realize that everybody thinks I’m blind.

small poems, written since January 2019

new year
same obsessions
the amaryllis blooms

stone lion
broken paw . . . .
weeks since i passed this way

snow falls
i remind myself
nothing is expected of me

i had a thought
but then
i forgot it

sometimes i think
the mirror
laughs at me

wondering…
what is the difference between
me and a cloud

listen
under the snow
a flower is being born

long ago
i was here
this tree was also here

now we are older
we laugh more
we laugh everyday

in the dream
i cook with seeds
flowers bloom inside me

today
the windows are open
easy to touch the clouds

early morning walk
birds birds birds
that is all … that is everything

four months
since i walked this path
i hardly recognize myself

early morning walk
a herd of busses stand
tail to trunk

waiting//waiting//waiting//being

descendants of ancient rocks
we turn our weary faces
toward the sun

left at the curb
my neighbor’s red silk dancing shoes ….
bits and bits of snow

passing the old-old house
hollyhocks
just a memory

tree stump — forgive me
i can’t remember
when you were a tree

dry fields
muddy fields
always the cows

lighting incense
an offering to the
midnight moon

who would i be
if my grandfather
had played the fiddle?

abandoned shed
splintering ….
daisies here and there

wooden bowl
stained purple
last summer’s berries

waiting in line so long
the bread gets moldy
(bakery dream)

going down Linn Street
remembering my sister long ago
in her pink suede hot-pants

walking under magnolias i am lighter

my neighbor’s yard
a Buddha statue ….
i stop grumbling

sharing the room
with a big black fly
this won’t end well

walking a path
around the rug
an inward journey

last night
the moon and me
later  …. just the moon

early morning walk
determined not to find haiku ….
i don’t

zooming around the room
a great big fly
i hesitate to yawn widely

early morning walk
irises irises irises
no heron

my room
designed to fit inside a 
haiku

the stillness of
5:30 a.m.
just me and my heartbeat

peonies pushing past the post


under my new wide-brimmed hat
walking farther
faster


almost-summer walk
a pair of ice skates abandoned
by the creek

little detours around each puddle

my  tiny haiku notebook
still swollen with
tuesday's rain 

black bear in the road
turns out to be 
an overturned trash can 

a new car
in my neighbor's driveway . . . .
i'm just curious 

--

early morning walk
the air heavy with just-about-to-rain

a neighbor has planted a water fountain in her front yard
gurgle gurgle

another overturned plastic cup
the ants go in the ants go out

-- 

just before sleep ...

"my dear" she says

inside my head ...

and i sleep all night

wrapped in her laugh 

how cleverly
we avoid one another
the squirrels and i 


it was a ho-hum walk
until you arrived
! cardinal ! 

late August morning
a cool breeze
the scent of loss

old friend
i didn't recognize you
until i saw your earrings 

pretending
i don’t mind . . . .
rainy day