Small Loves

Last night you taped your
wish to the window.  Today,
the first snow.

School conferences,
and you glow softly like the
byproduct of love.

The conversation
we have with our eyes – wordless,
you say everything.

No one said it would
be easy, though the things that
matter sometimes are.

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When There is Nothing Left to Do

When there is nothing left to do,
let sunshine become your upturned face,
hug her with your cells,

stop to kiss his face,
look into their eyes
for longer

than you would have yesterday.
Listen to music,
make music,

stretch your arms
as high as they will go toward the heavens
and reach your heart

to the sky. Bow,
or pray, or listen,
or simply love.

Share the water.
Soften your voice, open
your ears.

Make tea. Step outside.
Laugh, or cry,
or do whatever

it is that you need to do,
as long as it is
real.  The world needs you

to be real.
Let all of the old you’s walk away
through the open door.  Become

the touch of the lover,
a child’s face,
the teakettle that hums.

 

Marcellina

The first time you saw her,
you had to lay down
your body beside
Marcellina.

She holds you inside
her dark folds and white blankets,
the mountain, she stands,
Marcellina.

And under the midnight
woven with stars,
a truck sleeps beneath
Marcellina.

It rains until morning
as mist wraps its legs
around a lake lost,
Marcellina.

And in the soft sunrise
before the first frost,
a canopy gold,
Marcellina.

And just when you tell her
your heart will not go,
she tells you the same,
Marcellina.

The Mother

And so I call my mother
to thank her for
the strength

she gave to me, and also
perhaps especially,
for the joy, because this life

is just a small opening,
a momentary window,
and though

there are shadows
in the dark,
she gave me my hands,

with which to draw back
the curtains
and open eyes to see

the white snow fall
even as this night sky
lights up with morning.

Flat Planet

Hark the herald angels
sing the red line boldly,
this is not my story.
This is not our story.

He’ll tell you that the planet’s flat,
negligent explorer,
pockets lined with glory
trumpeting his glory,

full steam shipping down the line
toward the edge of reason,
he’s always keeping score, we
the people, brace for war,

lost for words but not conviction
when nothing left is sacred,
march right or you be wary,
things just might get scary,

so trade this fear for action,
and batten down the hatches,
lean against the oar,
let’s make love the allegory,
make love the allegory.