The pilot

I didn't see it then

but see it now

how hard for you it must have been

my navigation through the years

took us further

than you planned

but sweet you were

to go along

you didn't fail to try

 to give me peace

though I had none,

my nature interfering

and yours holding fast,

at least I never saw you

grieve the way I do.

I didn't see it then

but see it now.

Wind

The hour is late, nearly lost
like all the others--
here now then gone
with the good old wind.
Alone, me, with leaves piled up
like corn flakes against my door,
I worry his ashes will blow away.
Because nothing is safe from wind.
I recall our boat ride to the whales,
how the ocean rocked beneath us,
how the wind threw waves at us,
how it tried try to pull us down
before our time.

Lost

The leaf has lost her self.
Time has flung her against a tree.
Look how she lays against the trunk--
vanishing into bark, nearly bark
herself, barely there,
only a sketch of tender youth
yet lovely, in a new and scary way,
like a torn-off goose wing;
its natural to pity this--
life wants to go on and on and on
so nothing's sadder even for a leaf
than this terrible want
in a world where nothing lasts,
where all I can do is look back
over my shoulder and weep
at this knowing, like the leaf,
I am earth not heaven bound.

Annoying

Time is not a slow decay
the days all rush away--and worse
I can't recall the days at all.
Fun days, hard days, sad days---
all fall with equal speed
into the past.
Almost nothing lasts--it's always
now,
the present always cloying.
It's so annoying.

Still

Four months later, his death still dims the light
in every room.
Still chills, still silences.
His robe still feels heavy on me--
yes I wear it still but I've let go
of parts of him. I've plunged into
that work like a mop into a bucket,
unpleasant work that must be done.
Still I feel a sting when I see his coat hanging
next to mine. Mints in the pockets, still fresh.
I feel too full and too empty,
like a hostage deprived of tenderness
who sweeps the floor to keep on going.
Still I tip toe past his ashes
as if he needed rest.

Courage

High up on Mount Diablo, along its ledged ascent, I forget 

he is dead. 

Above clouds, almost in night’s realm, I know nothing. 

Clouds flow under me as flocks of angels 

shielding me from the darkness below, 

waking me from all knowledge. 

From knowing I ever had a husband

nor knowing anything at all under cloud.

Indeed I am new born in veils of blue light. 

Used to just a picture in every room without the scan

of hazle eyes, no swallowing a brick.  

And just like that, I am used to living in sky

as if my house has been standing here all along, 

without its floor ever dropping away. 

And here’s what I tell myself:

Life must stay porous. Pathways must open 

so the mouse can wiggle free 

and the wild geese fly in. 

No matter how lonely I am, the world 

offers itself to my imagination.  

Mary Oliver believes this. I will believe her. 

Swear allegiance to her. 

But this will take patience. It will take time. 

It will take this palm fast on my heart. 

How many clovers pop up overnight 
after a light rain, how many of them
can magically pop from the ground?
So pretty, so frilly as if crocheted
and for the first time since he died, 
I don't feel like crying.  

Minutes ago, while dressing I hear his voice 
from inside the closet. El, it's ok. 
I know it is illusion but I also know it's not. 

Once I stood at the bed where he had not moved 
in two days though his chest had been rising and falling
like someone who might open his eyes at any moment.
Just as these fallen leaves can take flight in the wind.

I can hear his voice in the closet one more time, 
(though I myself had seen him cold as concrete
and remember the room smelling of blown-out candle)
so why now this voice and why from a closet? 

It may just be my own voice, 
my own self whispering to me,
but because of it I can walk in the woods again
with only rain on my lips, with a joyous feel 
of a soul nearby ready for flight. 
That's the image I love 
and I let it cling to me.