My mother-in-law's orchid

 Stepping out mornings into my sunny garden

a different kind of time unfolds.

Coffee mug in one hand, I turn on the hose

with the other. 

Cool water showers the herbs and I hear 

a quiet applause rise

in me for their perseverance—

those deer did not return.

I pinch buds from the basil and the scent

bursts like green confetti into

my nose and move on

to my mother-in-law’s orchid.

It’s lived 13 years without her now —

Lived with her a decade before that

neglected by her and now by me 

who neglected both.

And yet it endures. 

Like her, it keeps on giving.

I’ve pruned my guilt about it but 

it grows back like her orchid’s improbable 

blooms, a sweet gift and a silent 

rebuke.

Back in the kitchen,

the basil’s scent won’t let go.

Each time I brush hair from my eyes,

a wave of green spice fills 

me up and quiets the sting 

of that regret and of children 

who take too long to call.

But when they do, it’s not the basil’s calm

but the sudden, soaring thrill I feel

when seeing that orchid bloom again.

oh how we hang on

Oh how we hang on 

even to our ficus, making sure it leans

 toward the light and keeps greening up, 

hoping our orchids only play dead and 

will burst back into bloom-- 

and stay there. 

We want every last leaf and frond 

and fern to make it, 

also our cloudy-eyed German Shepherd--

may she sit by my feet forever and 

may the cat keep watch in the window and 

may our kids and friends--all--

hang on—

our own selves especially—and 

leaf out again and again 

without end.

Oh how we hang on.

We sit on the porch and sense eternity —

right here, beside the Rosemary and Mint.

And when the bougainvillea finally gives out,

when the dearest friend doesn’t pull through,

we stare down at the ashes and 

make something infinite 

out of that smoke, see a world 

glowing at the edges

 without end.

Oh how we hang on.

Grief gets strange like that—rank and holy.

Even though we follow the science,

and nothing about forever makes sense.

My husband died ten years ago.

His ashes fell soft as snow into the sea—

no words fit for that world beyond 

atoms and forces, yet mind holds 

him intact and some part of him 

keeps glowing in the dark.

Oh how we hold on

and pray for the soul to slip

into the sky 

like a bird let out of a cage,

and there is a lasting flame 

at the center of things 

that never goes out.

Oh how we how on,

tell ourselves that flame was never born,

so it cannot die.

A whole forest of priests agrees with us. 

But it’s the wind through the oaks and 

the way the moss clings to stone that 

persuades us we will hang on too.

The part of us that longs for 

the ever ripe apples 

in our never rotting hands.

Mood swings

This heart swings often in that garden where sad moods
keep their bloom no matter the season.

One never knows which way the wind will toss the seeds.

Some by the fence seem to thrive in those dark places
With roots that dig deeper in the soil. 

Relentless in their return.

And some teased toward the sun.
These you pluck for further study.

Wash and trim those darlings for a vase 

on the kitchen table.

Chandelier

How gorgeous that moon—
a dazzling chandelier!  


Easy to forget its truth:
 

A land without air—

not at all a
 better world —

it would kill me
 given half a chance.  



I never tire of it.


Every full moon, half moon--any phase of it--feels 

new and gay, lighting my nights, 

counting my days.



I see myself bouncing in its spiky dust.  


Eyes fixed on earth below—


that gorgeous palace! 

The shock of seeing home

alone in that empty awesome black


would change me.


Years after, while brushing my teeth, that memory 

would assail me—blue earth circling

 in the ink of infinite sleep. 

It would stop my pulse. The mystery of it.


The total mystery of it. 

Eternity is the problem

The way the Bay stretches before me 

when I step 

      over the yellow hill of Oyster park—all filmy lilac—

and a necklace of sparkling jewels

      light the San Mateo bridge—

my heart trips—a soft bobbing 

      against my ribs, legs turn to silk.

My arms swing wide out to the side

       as if I might alight.  

So drugged am I by the great expanse and 

      strong evening breeze, 

and the sky ablaze as if heralding 

      a great triumph, a great gratitude.

Forgotten is this morning‘s walk 

     as the widow,

teary on a muddy trail 

      between a steep hill and a waterless creek

who stops beside a brown leaf dangling 

      rag-like beside the fresh green newborns,

who follows the deer tracks 

      to the edge of the lake,

who waits for a breeze to nudge her 

     to the next moment and

cries because crying 

      gives her something to do 

about this thing 

      that nothing can be done about. 

It’s eternity— eternity is the problem.  

      It falls out from under you 

like a sink hole.

My man who loved me with a 

       mother's patience is no more. 

His green eyes far from light.

       His comb, wool socks--

      

the closet full of things 

      that outlive him. 

 Death is a crime. 

       If you are alive and glad to be alive, 

 death is theft, a mean assault. 

And if you have no faith, there's no appeal. 

       No one rises from the grave. 

But he is dead, my dearest, we've been 

      disconnected by every measure.

A box of bone bits centered on the table, 

      the one he passed every day for years— 

now his altar. 

So while he is nowhere, detached from me,
      in measureless space,

I prepare for the rain that's forecast, 

       plant the bulbs he meant to plant, 

make his dog stop sniffing his shoes. 

Practicing

After the late night shower,

by morning these leaves look exhausted 

but content in their graves,

shiny too with clear pools 

in their centers no bigger 

than tears. 

Whatever yesterday laid flat 

and bruised in aridness 

now gains a second wind 

in the rain, a final taste, a gasp 

that returns blood to their veins, 

makes their brown spots shine

as small wide eyes.

I like this large maple leaf 

in the center of mud 

and not far away two thin eucalyptus leaves 

whose edges were nibbled on last night,

seem now recovered, stretched out 

on a neighbor's back, a small seed 

hanging like a bell from its spine. 

I mistake a red leaf for a feather 

and place it on the belly of a fallen 

chunk of bark, 

dark as espresso, 

arrange them all to my liking 

and remove my camera from a pocket. 

Part of me is always watching,

practicing their dying

Though I still feel 

far away from my undoing.

Yet for a moment here,

it seems not so bad a thing 

to one day lay down flat 

on the great heart of  this earth.

Looking

 There, look, I say to me, 

and I look. 

I see blue, lavender—life. 

And stare 

      at that horizon's calm gaze. 

Like leopard eyes. 

Bright and then brighter

      and then dimmer and darker

as clouds part 

and re-gather . 

I promise to stay 

     here,

in this moment of clouds 

and swells 

not in the last moment, 

     not 1000 moments past,

nor in the next.

I will not squander this moment

      with its music of wind chasing wind, 

bird calling bird, 

water washing rock. 

yes .... yes I can do this, 

      I will, do this.

I will kneel at the altar 

     of this moment. 

 
No other. 

What's ahead

The old warned us there’s deprivation

up ahead 

that worsens with time.

Parents, pets, friends--all we love--

carried away

and our own sweet bodies 

a shock in the mirror.

They did not mention a sunset on the Bay 

could bring more peace than a

striving young heart 

could know 

just by placing one foot after the other

along the pebbled beach,

my friend laughing beside me;

a picnic of lamb chops and mango waiting 

in my backpack for a shady spot. 

Everything needed provided.

But on this sunset my friend turns her face 

from the glow and says,

 I‘ve got 15 summers left, 

if i'm lucky. 

So she plans her summers with care now.  

Each a precious stone kept safe from thieves.

I was angry at my mother for not coming

that month I lay pinned to a hospital bed.

But how could I know it was her last summer?

A summer of curated movements. 

I wish I had not argued with my man that June 

he tripped on the sidewalk 

when it took precious summer days to heal. 

We did not know it was his last June. 

How could we have known that in October 

the sun would set at six and not rise again?

One by one they walked out of this house—

or were carried out. 

The oldest daughter, then her sister, brother

my mother,  

……..my husband, my dear, my man, my angel.

And now the final leaving--our boy's packing   

and this house enlarges as with every departure.  

It's a castle now: ceilings sky high, hallway 

a cavern--the whole place a relic, 

unsound and useless. 

Selfie

If only I could live wide awake, 

every moment clear between these

ears and eyes.

So time would quiet down, 

so it would move slowly on hands and knees. 

If tasks, news, many silly things

did not hold me in a drowsy  trance

where time zip-lines away

so it is always the  past.

 

How to keep this mind tuned 

to the shapes of clouds, 

to the skunks that nibble from the cat’s bowl, 

the struggling camilla, 

chimes I hung above it

and after read a poem out loud 

about why there’s nothing to be sad about 

then write another about the worm

glistening on the deck 

and mention all the things I'm grateful for

and so turn time into my own loving friend 

 rather than this foe

who steals all I love. 

Answers

 This shapeless blowing wind

      wide 

 and high—

so refreshing that

     the moment froze 

and then the rising, 

     falling 

wind began

     anew

across the desert 

of my skin 

     over the hills 

of my cheeks. 

Gentle currents

in glowing 

    shapes  

flowing silent 

     as fish

and then 

they hurry 

    over me—

a perfect moment, 

giving me this 

    answer 

to everything.

Now the nights grow chilly

When the kids move out and your man dies 

and the best friends get cancer or move to Arizona,  

the rooms in your house look dried out, roped off

like those rooms in a history museum 

because you just can't remember what you said 

or did in places where things will never be like that again.  

So you make pumpkin bread now and that makes you

smile back

at your Jack O Lantern‘s wicked grin.  

Outside the window a maple tree drops 

bits of gold across the yard, there’s a scent of wood 

burning in the fog & you feel the earth turning its back

On the sun, all the long, bright days

no more. 

Autumn still beautiful as before but

the nights now too chilly

so you go to bed with the candle burning 

just to keep Jack smiling at you

all through the night.

 

I've been refused

I’ve been refused epic talent, 

power, fame

a long-lived  marriage 

and grateful children,

what I wanted in my prime, 

in that order

and before that, 

as a pious youth, I was refused 

a world without epic greed, epic hurt.

About that I am still angry, 

But about the rest, about all the rest

I am not angry, 

and about all that came my way, 

all my parochial achievements,

I am pleased, 

more than pleased, 

I am profoundly grateful, 

at times even blissed out

by the wholes and the fragments of my fate, 

the camaraderie and comforts, all the kisses--

for all I was not refused, at sunset

I kneel under the partial moon, the

hiding star.

If only I could live fearless, fully awake

 .......every moment clear between these

ears and eyes

        So time would quiet down, 

        so it would move 

slowly 

         on hands and knees. 

If tasks, news, silly things

       did not hold 

       me in a drowsy  trance

where time zip-lines away

       so it is always the  past 

      or it is always the future.  

How to keep this mind tuned 

     to the shapes of clouds 

    and phases of the moon, 

to the skunks that nibble from the cat’s bowl, 

       the weeping camilla I planted, 

       chimes I hung above it

and after read a poem out loud 

      about why there’s nothing to be so sad about 

     then write a poem about the worm

glistening on the deck 

      and mention all the things Im grateful for

and so turn time into my loving friend 

      who shares delights rather than 

      my foe 

     who steals everything I love. 

When my man’s hand guides my elbow up the stairs because I have grown unused to being upright (2021 Jane Underwood Poetry Prize Semifinalist

Because I have not slept a full night 

     since Spring, 

have not eaten through my mouth 

    in a season.  

The kitchen looks the same. 

   His mother sets the table, 

the kids sit down to eat

just as they did

      that night I bolt 

 to the ER. 

Now the man I married 

     pulls out a chair, teaches

me how to bend again. 

And I begin to sob 

     at the deep beauty 

of sitting 

      at that table.  

Because I have lived so long 

     as a clam flipped 

on her shell.  

Because in the bleached light 

     of my hospital room,

the scream of machines 

     do not cease, 

I think of all the things I will do 

     if I make it home again.  

First I’ll subscribe 

     to Gourmet magazine, 

learn to cook—embolden

     herbs with my love. 

     I will infuse the world’s oils 

with my devotion. 

   In the garden, I will tear at the ground 

         With both hands and birth 

   more trees 

        and they will include apple, cherry, plumb

and the scent of lemons 

     will besiege the windows 

of the house.

And there will be many red flowers

    to beguile more hummingbirds.

And each morning I’ll gulp down 

     the sun in one breath,

Starting with that first dawn 

    When I am home again. 

When the blooms fall

The orchid's petals 

uncouple on my dinner table

just as my heart blooms and loosens

over and over

again and the light

dims from white to honey 

then steel to black

and the loneliness comes

and then it goes

as these petals come and go.

Such is the character of life

that day after day the world

feels a garden of plain and tender

and anguished hours

so sometimes the day feels

endless and sometimes

the night feels so

like now with air around

the orchid thick with my beloved 

dead.

Hard to breathe

Oh this man. 

This man who stands before me 

smiling. 

This force working on me.  

When his knee leans

on my knee, we blush. 

His knee admits what 

he is thinking 

and my breath 

is my confession.  

Our pulse no longer

under our control.  

Now I know his secret 

and he knows mine.  

The problem is:

I have a man 

and he has a wife. 

We are just  magnetic poles

standing much too close. 

His north pulls hard on my south.  

The field between us 

gaining power. 

We cannot be judged.  

What is happening is simple physics.   

Invisible forces circling 

the center of our beings.  

I will pull us apart. 

I will pull     pull      pull      

us far apart.  

I will defy the laws 

of Nature. 

Whatever waits

We meant to spend the night on Lake Isabel 

but made a wrong turn 

and now the light on the mountain 

burns rust 

then old rose and 

soon a very dark 

wine. 

Should we turn back,  

try again,

keep going 

on this pretty road,

the one walling this river

with boulders 

that rolled down from the sky

like a horde of moons?

Should we stop at this inn 

with a view of the river 

rushing toward all 

that is waiting? 

We do. 

All night the river 

rams the rocks. 

We hear the purling, 

the tumbling, the crashing

them toward 

what is waiting, what

will keep waiting.

We drown in our sleep 

through that all-night 

dash into all that 

is waiting, waiting. 

We bow to this wrong turn--

it is a gift 

on our journey into

all that awaits.

They have learned patience

 Terrifying to live on this earth 

with so many

gods out to get you. 

      One day on the deck, the god 

of gods pleasures your skin

    but tomorrow sends

the god of ice 

     to swig you down. 

Then the storm god 

     frowns and your house shakes,

thudding on the roof.

     The cammellias bend and tremble.  

You want to save them but 

     the planters roll on the patio,

 your wind chimes scream

    from their perches.   

So wrap yourself in wool, think 

     of all the strays, human and other, 

hoping they find cover, thinking 

     there but for the grace of God....

thinking of your cousin off the ventilator 

     after 28 days, being wheeled home by her man, 

himself limping, wheezing;  

thinking of the ambulance that came

      for your neighbor, wondering what 

jaws sprang overnight in his

    yard-- just a day ago, you see him place 

 a Christmas tree in his green bucket.  

     How easily he wielded that nine-footer.  

Somewhere hills are caving, 

     there are mud slides.  Somewhere a car 

is crossing a line. 

      A virus gains power.  

Traumas creeping up behind us.  

     Striking. Out of the blue.

Out of sublime sunshine. 

     Picking a moment in their own time. 

The gods have patience. 

 

Spirit among spirits

Walking along Limantour beach,

a sumner day in winter

thinking, not thinking.  

Salmon drawn year after year 

spooning eggs in this open mouth

of fresh stream and salty  tide--

but how do they find 

this nest again?

Do they smell its spit

like wolves smell rabbits 

in the snow 

or an Eskimo spots a bear

in shades of white?

So many kinds of knowing  

closed off to me 

yet I love to wander, 

a spirit among spirits--

my bed a mere

stopover 

on the way 

to another world.

.  

Yes I do

The truth is I do not believe

     in magic, 

miracles, 

ghosts, souls--

      all that jazz.  

Yet when a hundred herons 

     sitting still 

on the edge of the shore 

      suddenly rise as one 

in a blur of down moving 

      in slow, slow beats 

blocking sky in their storm 

      of snow,  

I do, yes, 

yes I do 

     sense wings move in me.

I do 

     feel a swooping down 

from clifftops.

I do

      feel my body in that updraft 

soaring 

      toward the moon 

and what is left

      of me 

on this empty beach 

      is but a tiny cloud,

a mere idea

     on which good fortune dusts 

a sweet, sweet down.