Small Mercies

 

These are the small mercies
that tend our lives:
spring blossoms, tender cirulean skies,
the eternal and yet ever-changing tides,
the moments in between,
where peace abides.

Tip back your head
and drink the heady fumes
of cherry blossoms
thick upon the bough.
The world we knew and loved
seems to be ending,
but this heady scent
is balm enough for now.

I plant a seed of hope
inside this poem,
to help you ride through
times as dark and these.
I fling it far
upon the springtime breeze.
May it find its loving way to you
with ease.

A small seed of hope for Susan's prompt at What's Going On : Seeds

RENEWAL

I thought to share this poem from 1981, when I was just coming back to life after earlier trauma. In those years I was raising children, and each spring I planted the entire back yard with fruits and vegetables to feed my hungry crew. I was also beginning to speculate about whether to try love again, always a terrifying prospect. Smiles.

March 3, 1981

Tiny stirrings,

buds curled, waiting,

limp, brown grasses

trying to turn green,

a busy twittering of birds

too long silent

in the bare brown branches

of winter.......

Soon I'll be planting seeds

in warm, dark earth,

watching greenness growing

where once a wasteland lay,

letting the seeds go

to grow whichever way

they want to grow,

having finally learned

to just let living flow.

Perhaps a wondering lurks

within my eyes this year

as I start my slow walk back

from Siberian retreat.

The last frozen wastes

are melting near my heart

and tentatively -

oh, more carefully this time-

I ponder what new things

might emerge

from this springtime

of possibilities

I see.

I think it might be nice

to plant something

besides carrots here

this year.

People chuckled when I read that last line at the coffeehouse. Smiles.

Legend

 

The books telling the history

of the First People

were written on their totem poles,
each face a legend
of ancient times
upon the land.

They stripped off the bark

and carved out the innards

of the fattest cedar

to sculpt their canoes,

then pushed off,

into the foggy morning,

in search of the whale

that sang to them the night before

in their dreams.

Their clothing was scant and thin,

but their blood ran warm

as they chanted, dipping their paddles

strongly, backs bent against

the rhythm of the tide.

for Shay's Word List

In April

In April, the forsythia blooms bravely yellow
in the chill. I take the temperature of my being
this 78th springtime of my life.

My heart aches.
Is it existential or physical?
Likely both.

I am processing cruelty and injustice:
the frail  80 year old woman I watched on video,
being carried out by police for protesting the exclusion
of immigrant children from school.
"This is wrong," she said, her face resigned
to whatever came next.

How quickly fascism moves.
How soon "agents" who are "just following orders"
exchange humanity and civility
- and the rule of law and due process -
for aggression, devoid of empathy. 

None  brave enough
- like the old woman -
to say "this is wrong."
As if a switch has been turned within, changing
all decency to cruelty and harsh, uncaring stares.

We have seen all this before.

That same day I stood by my grandson's grave.
This felt wrong, too.
He was so alive, magical, loving,
and now forever gone.
His mother wept beside me,
a forever loss, a rending of the fabric of family.

We promise to keep him alive
through our stories and memories.
But it is not enough.

I have seen so many marches, protests,
heard so many pleas for peace -
yet here we are, still marching.
This is where I came in,
having to fight to restore
all those rights again.

Weariness, fatigue, a tired heart
beating ever more slowly.

Existential and physical angst
feel much the same. They sing one weary note
and dream to hope again.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On, on being and doing in April. 

The She-Wolf and the Matriarch

 

Every animal craves, at some point,

a long, cooling drink of river water,

dripping off their muzzle, the same way

tea catches in the dowager's faint moustache,

and drips off her chin hairs, embarrassing,

but dimming vision softens the image

in the mirror.

I can see the she-wolf, snout emerging from her burrow,

with the same temerity as the doughty matriarch,

peering out her doorway, each assessing the hour,

the skies, the mood of the day

in her sphere.

Two elderly beings, their time long past,

the fabric of their days now focussed on

safe passage through an increasingly

noisy and bewildering world,

hearts hollow from remembering

the names of all those they have lost. 

for Shay's Word List