Small Matter

You are
A speck of dust
Ash fading in windstorm

Neither here nor there
Disappear without notice

Nobody wishes you
Gone
Or wishes you at all

An atom
A nucleus filled to its brim
A universe encased in a shell

Inside
You are endless
Out here
The irrelevance of small things


Small matter
Invisible
Unimportant
Disposable
Expendable
Who cares?


I do.


 I am the mother that waits
The hands that wring
The scream that falls into the black hole
Of small matter


 Somewhere
You matter




 Not here.

Antaeus

Antaeus n. Greek mythology. A giant wrestler who could not be defeated as long as he remained in contact with the earth. Hercules defeated him by lifting him off the ground. 
It was Antaeus who,
 losing touch with Earth
felt his insides dying

suspended in mid-air
 everything seemed much more beautiful
even those imperfections that grew like unwanted naps in the back of the forest

had it not been for his own breath fading
he would have looked a little longer
with different eyes

not those of a child towards his mother
but those of a son to his aging accomplice

He always believed he was an entity outside of her

an individual

the ground he walked on was just dirt now,
he noticed how similar their features were
how her brown dust so much resembled his own skin
how mudcracks of drought reminded him of his own heel during the harsh season
he was so much like his mother

he wept quietly

as tears reached her
they dissolved back to the place from which he came

Ithaca

This morning, as I was going through papers, I found this old poem. It has been a while since I posted, but here it is!



It is not the orange red leaves

That multiply and scatter

That find themselves back again

Closer to where they began



Not even the cold cold chilly mornings

I wish the heat were on

Already

I wish I lived in a place warmer

And closer to bare feet

The ones I used to walk on as a little girl

And scorch the flat side


And like it



All the nots and wishes

And remember whens and

Looking back

And , and

It is not that



Then, when I remember

I remembered I remembered back then

And wished, even as a young child

I had been someone or somewhere else



It is now

Not those nots

But the ones

I bury deep in my throat

That I finally unclench

That I look

And realize

It is all of these

And the leaves

And the cold

Cold

And the turning

Of everything

Including myself


And I am here.

Sunday Evening

It was the walk to the swamp
We had to find
Or the hands we held
On the way there
Fingers finding their way toward each other
Embracing and releasing
The joy of joining
Limbs and thoughts
As I panted to keep up with your
Too long legs

It was the walk back home
The squirrels that stole bird food
And the branches that were
Showing just enough
To keep us guessing as to
Who they might become

It was the opening of the door
The stepping in
The silence
That held no weight
The sound that had
No presumption of
Remaining

It was the work that
Had to be done
The math that needed solving
The clothes that needed folding
The meal we shared
The late night pains that come with
The baby we both await

It was the break you took
To help me up, to warm the tea
To listen
To help me understand the us in this moment

It is
Our life
We are building
With each was and is
And remember when.

Oh, the stories we will tell
The ones that seemed most unlikely
The ones that were placed in our palm
The chances we took, and those we reserved
The moments that happened between the blinks
Of our life

But
We will also recall
stories
too simple to share

And those
I will jot down
to read to you
When we are
Alone.

Lessons from a Tree

Bloom fully and with intention
Know each season, and live it with a healthy dose of abandon
know when to hold on and when to let go
Squirrels will take from you with or without your approval. Let them. They will help share your seed.
Give shade – there are those who need you
Bend with the wind
Cherish and honor your roots, no matter how tangled. Without them, you would not be here today.
Grow deep roots, but reach high and wide. It is possible.

Lately, I have been noticing living things around me. Even those silent, still things – the ones I had not realized were around. There is a tree, just outside our apartment, that defies natural law. As the winter chill came in, even the most stubborn of leaves finally detached, and returned from where they came. But this tree decided to hold on to its leaves. Dead and unresponsive, what a struggle it must be to keep holding on to something so ripe to depart. So, as its top branch tips congeal, its bottom branches prefer to believe summer, or at least spring is around the bend. How difficult it must be to outsmart seasons; to wish for something impossible; to hold on to something dear and gone. How this tree sticks out, in a very odd way. Every morning, I check on this tree like an old friend. Observing, wondering when the time will feel right, and the leaves will drop, and imagine the tree’s joy in discovering there is beauty in being bare, and alone; there is still love where the leaves lived last.

Growing Up

I thought growing up
Would be an unwanted chore
Like picking up socks, or washing dishes
I thought it would be hard work
That you do
Only
When everyone is looking

I thought growing up would be
too expensive
and costly
Full of things I did not want to give up
Like wedgies
And cuddles
And silly giggles

I thought I would just do it
When the time came
And when the time came
I would know

I would be ready
I would be grown up
And contained
I would smile at appropriate things
And not be afraid of big dogs

The time never came
And growing up creeped up on me
And greeted me from the inside

She arrived like an old friend
With no luggage at the door
Just a smile
And an urge to let her in.

After the Vet

How do you make the cat
Stop licking her wound?
The one with the pus
And icky stuff oozing from the side

The one you want to look at
Because it is so repulsive
And you can’t imagine
Having anything so imperfect
Living right under your skin

Or maybe you can

Maybe you can remember that
Scab
You kept picking on

The bike ride
Gone terribly wrong

The miscalculated brave jumps
Of our youth
That left reminders
Of how fragile
And resistant
We can be

And so we unravel the gauze
And rub her belly and back

She takes it all in
Until she lets go of the need to
Lick the wound that
Screams for attention

In our living room
She notices
Here, too, we are calling
And the choice she must make:

which voices to tend to
And which urges to tame