gently

i saw your picture today
and the butterflies swarmed

[electric twinges to the tips
of my fingers]
and I was stranded

for a moment,
taking you in
again.

just a gaze in my direction
able to peel away layers

[so gently]

to expose the part of me
made of nothing
but light.

Untitled 5-23-05 - Revised

My world lies under a dishwater sky,
rinsed in the gray of five days' rain.

Each leaf bends to the will of the wind,
branches wave with the rehearsed grace
of pageant beauty queens.

Even lilacs bow and huddle like birds
seeking refuge while they await
the first rainless day, to open their eyes
to the sun.

But some good can be said of the deluge
for silver lines these clouds.

The botanical jewels of spring
have never looked so brilliant.
Saturated with water, every verdant shade
comes to life like the Emerald City.

The rain fills the ground with the promise
of lush summer and barefoot grass.

I am content to stare at the sky
and wait out the storm,

knowing the best
is yet to come.

Untitled 5-23-05

My world lies under a dishwater sky,
rinsed in the dingy gray of five days’ rain.

Each wet leaf bends to the will of the wind,
branches waving like parade beauty queens,
with a seemingly rehearsed grace.

Even the lilacs bow and huddle like birds
trying to stay warm and dry, just waiting
for the first rainless day, to open their eyes
to the sun.

But some good can be said of the deluge;
there are silver linings to these clouds:

The botanical jewels of spring have
never looked so brilliant. Saturated
with water, every verdant shade
comes to life like the Emerald City

and the rain fills the ground with promises
of lush summer blooms and perfect
bare-foot grass.

I am content to stare at the sky
and wait out the storm,

knowing the best
is yet to come.

Saturday Morning

The pop and hiss,
bright firefly sparks
shooting upward
in liberated masses

and the warmth of rocks,
on which my bare feet
spent the night -

toenails glistening
with pink polish,
in total contradiction
of the me that was
peeing in the woods,
the me that was trying
to call the Barred owls
who were sadly absent
in this pseudo-rural place -

and the wafts of smoke
I didn't move my chair
to avoid, the glow of
many a log’s final hour
before changing forms,
as we all do eventually -

Friday night's scent
is still strong in my hair.

I sit here, gratefully alone,
and spread it in curtains
across my face.

Summertime Search

On any given resplendent day
when the bliss of summer vacation
had just started to set in
and my mother had already begun
to get tired,

she would send us out into the trees
which separated our yard
from Henry Paul’s fields.

I don’t want to see you until it gets dark,
she would tell us, and she meant it.

Laden with the all the accoutrements
necessary for proper field research -
magnifying glass, dull tweezers,
tarnished silver spoons,
juice boxes and snacks -
we went in search of myth.

My mother once told us,
as her mother once told her,
that the delicate patches
of smooth emerald moss
which we overlooked as we walked
through the woods,

were where the fairies gathered
and danced at night, holding grandiose balls
with beautiful gowns and handsome top hats.

But they never wear shoes, she said.

Out would come the tools of the hunt
and we would spend hours in the greenery,
determined to examine every inch of moss
in search of podiatric dimples.

We almost always returned home
raving about at least one spot we‘d found.

It was the real thing, for sure,
we’d tell her, and she’d smile
and have a seat, prepared to hear
every detail as we recounted exuberantly.

Twenty years later,
I still can’t help but look quickly
for impressions in the moss -

the magic of the quest
indelibly marked in my memory,

timelessly,

like tiny, glittering footprints.

Simple Lessons

Three floors up,
they flatten themselves
as best they can
against the floor.

Plump from good food
and many a nap in the sun,
they are not really flat at all,
just lower to the ground -

an odd looking incarnation
of a long-lost instinct

to remain undetected
in the grass,
to hunt without being
hunted.

The sunlight brings out
glitter in their coats.
Each slight movement of the
prey starts a chain reaction
of shifting fur, from top
to bottom.
Their tails whip menacingly.

On the other side of the glass,
a little bird feels safe enough to
approach.

He helps himself to some birdseed
right in front of them, comfortably -
almost teasing,
as if thinking:
My, how things change.

I marvel
at the way nature learns
new boundaries,
and defies those
of the past in the face of
evolution.

I am also reminded,
as domesticated tails switch,
making ferocious promises
which can’t be kept,
while wild little birds eat their fill,

that time can alter who we are

and that there is infinite joy
to be found

not in what we want
or think we need,

but in making the most
of what we have.