Rainfall

Though not that long a drive—less than three hours, past the windmill farm

and through orchards—the road back to the City has been long,

hard-won. My heart, a tree in my chest, has been growing, branches

seeking new sky. And what they have found, and touched, a sweet surprise.

This first week back, the weather is hard, a relentless storm, and cups

and books, kettles and even cats, contained in boxes. I’m not sure where the pieces

of me are any more. And all the things I gave away: candles and vases,

bedding and soap. And here I sit, in a café in San Francisco, a coat

wrapped around my body, while the man I came here for works,

works outside in the rain, traipsing the varied landscapes this place

offers. And it offers so much: hot tea in a large mug, cooling, a window

showing the green hill that marks my new neighborhood. And it’s falling,

rain. And I’m falling, love. And though this weather, all climate change,

challenges, I want it to keep coming down from the sky, washing us all

wet and new. The view from this vantage—though shrouded in clouds—

the most beautiful I’ve known. On Saturday, we’ll plant bulbs for Spring flowers. 

Instead

At the end,  let our breath

speak, voiceless waves, and our eyes

always say what we mean, 

even when our voices are lying. 

I'm not afraid, he intones, even

though he's talking about dinner. 

But his eyes shift and I know

he's already fled. Instead of goodbye, 

my love, just breathe with me--float

through the fear. We'll use our forks

to fight off the monsters, 

imagined and real. Or go, yes, go. 

And miss another dawn covered in green

percale sheets, with the pink of sunrise

just peeking through. 

Letting go

Afternoon Sunday, sun day

takes me under as I rock, 

an anchored boat on the water. 

There are places I'm supposed to be

but this boat won't go. 

Stillness is my new wonder. 

Wait

In the wait time, all is still.
No birds. No rustling.
Even my own breath is soundless.
There's a new something
coming. It's bigger than my heart.
A large swatch of sky,
it arrives on my doorstep, the blue
folded and sitting in a basket.
Lifting this gift, I rise and am pulled
away, to a different land,
where the roses give all year long.

Where I find joy

It strikes, all at once, as my footfall lands on the path
along a creek. It's in the leaves--or more precisely,
the reflection of light off the leaves--sudden antidote
to the monster that was born under my bed,
the one now living in my head. I free him.
I'm freedom. And we're dancing under
sunshine, me and this old monster. And my heart's
so big it bursts out of my back, becoming
wings and I fly.

Last

This is the last of something,
so make it last. Smooth out
the wrinkles and keep it
behind glass. Display this piece
on the mantel--that's where my family
kept precious things: the nesting dolls,
my 'best actor' trophy, the antique
clock. When it chimed at nine,
I tremored because it was time for bed,
signaling the last minutes of what I knew
as life. When I fell asleep, things
turned sketchy. Monsters, cars without
brakes. Rivers I needed to, but couldn't,
cross. My father's cross with me. I won't
go to bed. I want to pull back the hands
of that old clock, and re-meet today.

Later

The almond blossoms came early this year.
I crave that snow.
A year seems a long time away. Summer's
nearing--it'll rain tomorrow and then, sunshine.
The tomatoes will thrive and I will fill
myself with vegetables. The almonds will fall
from the June trees, we'll watch
bluejays pry them open.
Later, I'll open up, too--after the zucchini is through,
when the fruit stands have boarded up.
The children will be trick or treating,
and I'll be handing out pieces of my heart,
carefully, but nonetheless, I will.