Green

Spring did not come easy that year
and neither did her happiness.
Both were wrought from cold hard ground,
after having to be tough as nails,
face into belligerent gusts of wind
and relentless rain.

Exhausted they both turned toward the sun
the moment it appeared.
The first bud was strong and sweet
paving the way for full bloom.
Tiny leaves gathered on the branch and
suddenly everything was green.

Untitled

There are places I cannot get to
Unless I leap real high
Cling until my muscles begin to shake
Dig until my fingernails begin to bleed
The truth is hidden in a crevice just out of reach

I once caught two lemons
and with my brave hands
made a martini.
It was shaken, not stirred, and perfect.

Dribbles

These are things that did not become poems:

I used to be able to catch lightening
chase storms as they thundered over the hills
But I am weary now and
Winter is Coming.

******************************************

Time moves slowly due to frost
Even the moon is more tired with the nights so long
No one sits on the damp park bench
The grass forms a carpet of icicles

*******************************************

I once climbed a mound of dirt only
to discover it was a temple.
I kicked a stone and it tumbled down,
terribly unholy.

Ars Poetica

When I was 5, I stole a piece of candy from the grocery store.
When I was 11, with my throat burning, I confessed this sin
to my father, who tilted his head as he looked at me and said,
Why are you telling me this?

Years later I gave birth to my one dear son,
and when I whispered my hopes and dreams
in his ear, he looked at me like my father did.
Now too, I guess, I was not making any sense.

Sometimes, language is insufficient.

When Young Mothers Die of Cancer II

Somewhere in Maryland a
young mother is dying.
Down in Houston her mother grieves.
In California her children play together,
as she would have liked had she
lived long enough to see it.

At night sometimes she comes to them,
her smell sweet and familiar,
her hug warm and longed for.
She wraps them tight in memory.

In the morning they say nothing
Afraid someone will tell them it wasn't real.

When Young Mothers Die of Cancer I

If you want to know whether life is fair
just look to the young mother dying of cancer.

There is no reason, no rhythm, no why
just grief
and sorrow
and loss
Of hugs
and birthdays
and the future
and hope

They know what we are afraid to admit.
That the only thing this money can't really buy
is more time.

Blackberries

For Allen

My favorite memory will be picking blackberries with you
on the way to Boyle's swimming hole.
The path was well lit and sunny and dusty
like I remembered.
There were no cattails but the reeds were as high as our heads.
Blackberry thorns pricked on both sides.
Ripe fruit was scarce but
I reached into the briars
risking skin and limb because blackberries
are your favorite
and I would do anything for you.