Lovely poem from Wendell Berry

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

Crepuscule

My baby’s lapis eyes are quick to laugh, her soul
a magnet picking up the filings of joy in our lives,
pressing them together into solid chunks of goodness.
I don’t like to lie to my daughters, or even to dissemble.
But I yearn to protect the too short mirth of childhood,
keep the worst of the world at bay. Here in the gloaming,
anxiety sparks at the margins of my maternal smile,
shaking the foundation just a bit in spite of my assurances.
How do I explain war to a pure heart? Greed and hubris
to one who shares without hesitation?

I am buffeted by the sense of unknowing, unable to get
my bearings without the sun or stars. A feeling
like motion sickness without the certainty
of a distant horizon and firm footing.
This twilight offers no hint of what will follow:
a sheet pulled over the slack features of resignation?
Or incandescence, as the world springs to life.

Good Love #1

Stolen moments strung
between acts in our
three ring circus.
We unfurl at dawn to the little one
singing herself awake,
and the elder carefully
assembling – not matching –
another uniquely flamboyant
outfit, the likes of which
have never been seen
in her second grade classroom.

A moment of caffeinated bliss,
the freshly roasted beans our brief escape.
We explore the terroir of the coffeelands
from our snowbound bed
and dream of rickety bus rides
through mountain tracts in search of
an honest Huehuetenango.

“Time to brush your teeth!”
in my screechiest mama voice.
Pulling up tights for the umpteenth time
on those perfect, plump legs.
A frantic hunt for the fancy shoes
with the bows, or the sparkles.

Then it’s the blur of day, transitions
bookend the time apart.
Not the type to phone at intervals, us.
Needs met during the stolen times
when I wrap my arms around you
and you can almost hear
the click.

An out of season Poem

Just getting caught up here. Fortunately I haven't been very prolific...


November
The maple tree outside my window
disrobes by degrees. Long after
the others stand naked and stoic
in the face of what lies ahead,
she enthralls, burlesque;
her flamenco skirts cartwheeling
beside the buttoned-down
houses of my street.

As her plumage falls away, bony limbs
rattle in mournful percussion.
A bittersweet pall descends. The eye
longs to capture the last radiance
of the too-short season,
but the heart tightens at the approach of
darker days and restless confinement,
and is forced to look away.

Waterworks

I sat midstream, a river rock
worn smooth and rounded by
caresses of constant companionship.
Tickled by playful eddies;
hypnotized by the prismatic effect
of my good loves.

When the penstocks and sluiceways
went to work upstream,
the water disappeared with a shock;
diverted to some other purpose.
Exposed and achingly dry,
I felt myself cracking.

After a time the water returned, crystallized;
abrading edges and points.
After a dozen years of quiet contentment
I find myself rubbed raw.

I crave the natural cycles of flood and drought,
the surface of the water alternately
within reach, my fingertips dancing
just below the glassy mosaic;
then rushing far overhead,
the strong current carrying
artifacts from upstream
while I remain firmly settled
in my rightful place.

-oct 07

Taproot

An afternoon in the garden
Yields swathes of disturbed earth
Heaps of vanquished weeds
An hour of sweet solitude
And satisfying strain.

Loam infiltrates and settles in,
Emphasizing lines on my palm
Life line, head line, heart
The way gravestone rubbings
Highlight the parenthesis of short lives.

Long life, straight head, forked heart
Divided allegiances, delicious tension
Between orderly beds of cultivated beauty
And the riotous tangle of opportunity.

The struggle is layered;
While blooms race toward the sun,
Roots knit blind boundaries,
Or send a thick tap deep, deep
Staking claim to the salt of the earth.

--july 07