Spring Inside

Spring smells like my college town, the last place I smelled spring,
and it's like I'm in Kentucky in the morning when birds sing,
and the breeze is Colorado with the window open wide,
and now I realize how much spring I've bottled up inside.

Happy Birthday, Daughter

I just haven't been myself this year.
I can't think like I used to.
It's true, I haven't been just myself.
My precious daughter has been here,
filling my arms,
making me think of someone
other than myself.
She entered the world in the middle of the night.
We learned her face by the morning light.
It's been a year since that sudden day,
and I just haven't been myself.

A Different Smelling Spring

A different smelling spring–
served quite chilled, then warmed quickly,
with notes of melting snow
sweet and earthy on the nose,
this spring has woody undertones:
fresh-aged ash, maple, oak, and pine,
the neighborhood filled with sawdust fine.

Make Amends

A storm can break a tree,
a chipper can tear it apart,
leaving you with plenty of room
to make amends.
Ask and you shall receive,
pressed down and running over,
and you'll be forced (forced!)
to share it with friends.

Getting-Stuff-Done

The washing machine is churning away
which means I'm getting-stuff-done today.
I may be slouched
upon the couch
but I'm being productive, wouldn't you say?

An Eye

I'm developing an eye for what it all comes down to.
I can know without a sigh the bottom line.
There's some things that I've regreted, but to know where this is headed
helps me see a little clearer in this time.

It's Been Half a Year

It's been half a year,
and I'm still writing here,
although not as often.
My schedule seems to soften.
Now two weeks without poems,
you're wondering if I'm home.
Yes, I've been here enough–
just doing other stuff.

What is free today?

Today for free, there is a bed,
two chairs (one plaid, and one that's red),
a box full of computer parts,
someone who wants junk for art,
a TV shelf with dark green doors,
and tomorrow, there'll be more.

Talking About the Weather

On April twenty-two,
two-thousand-thirteen,
a cold wind blew,
and the snow was mean.
And I would guess
that no one would blame us
for just talking about the weather.
This April is famous.

Those Days

There's a tiny little baby that some friends are foster-caring,
and I got to hold him (I'm glad that they were sharing).
He was so very tiny. I'm sure his parents will wish
that they could have held him so soon. They might not know he exists.
And they will always wonder how holding their newborn would feel.
But I forget how it felt with my baby. Those days are fleeting, surreal.

The Floor

Since my baby likes to eat
the crumbs up off the floor,
do I have to vacuum less,
or should I vacuum more?

To Say Thank You

To say thank you
is to give up rights;
it means "You were under no obligation
to give me something so nice."
And so, to say thank you
is to open up and trust
that we won't cease to be cared for.
Yes, this is hard, but a must.

If

I'll take you to the pool,
and we'll go out on walks
and pluck up blades of grass
and learn to not eat rocks,
and I'll push you in the swing
and we'll watch your dad brew beer
and picnic on the yard
if we have summer this year.

Eggs

Eggs for breakfast,
omelets for lunch,
eggs on salads,
and boiled to munch.
Eggs in the basket
and eggs in the nest,
but the chickens are tired.
They've decided to rest.

This Time

This silence is a welcome rest.
This space is where I think.
This time is like an empty cup
that's filled up to the brink.

"Your Baby's First Year"

"Your Baby's First Year,"
and some cover art
remind me–– it's almost gone!
And it breaks my heart.

Shade

Some trees outlive us.
Some trees we outlive.
And if everything stayed alive
to shade our perfect lives
we would have to be
the very first to die.

Strong Hands

Your strong hands on the chainsaw,
and your strong arms have a knack
for getting it done, although it's not fun.
Now I need strong hands for your back.

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-seven books checked out from the library
and I can only read one at a time.
But to the library I go, and I can't say no
to a book whose name calls to mine.

Ice Storm

I suppose these branches were weak,
and so many trees needed pruning,
and we really needed the moisture,
and God has his own sense of timing.
So often we complain
about how long things take
and we don't like to wait
but then listen to us when
it all
happens
at once.

The Ice Storm

I had never seen ice like that.
I had never seen branches so fat
and so many limbs, falling to the ground,
so many repetitions of that crack-and-shatter sound.
So many trunks and wires and sticks
all buried in snow, to add to the mix.

The Downtown Library

We went to the downtown library.

It's much bigger than the one

down the street from our house,

and likely thrice as fun.

Four times as many stacks,

and magazines in racks,

and a space-age check-out scanner.

I can't wait to go back!

Out of Place and Time

A place for everything and everything in it's place.

Where do I put the bag of baby clothes 

I washed and folded and packed and labeled

the day before we heard about their miscarriage?

There is no place for that.

We have no room for grief.

I've never seen a shelf for this sort of thing 

in a house in a magazine

or in a book called "Interior Design for Dummies."

For it is wisdom, not fashion,

that remembers that life involves death

and needs a time as well as a place for everything.

Tomorrow's Eyes

How can I look straight into my child's eyes

and think about my work, my plans?

Is it because I think

"Oh, you'll still be here tomorrow."

Life is too fast.

I hold her fast to my shoulder and look beyond her.

Tomorrow. 

Does she know what tomorrow is?

Or is she only beginning to know herself?

She herself is tomorrow.

Tomorrow's writer, tomorrow's chef, tomorrow's engineer, tomorrow's mother…

And so I see that I am one small mother of tomorrow

so of course I look straight into my child's eyes

and think about tomorrow.

When I'm Done With This

I'll do that when I'm done with this.
I'll just write it on my list.
Might as well give it a hug and a kiss
and not even say "keep in touch,"
but only express "you will be missed."

Louder

Louder every morning,
the birds sing in the trees.
They are louder than the chickens,
and that puts my mind at ease.
And they're louder than the footsteps
that go across my ceiling
and they're louder than my worries,
and that gives me a good feeling.

In These Two Weeks

In these two weeks since I have written,
the first warm days of spring have come,
and we have spent no little time
making up for lack of sun.
And we have talked until we've found
where our sameness ends
and then we've talked until we've found
a way to still be friends.
And I have pushed the stroller fast
for miles on the trail
and we've come home, sat on the step
and sorted through the mail.
And then we pruned the apple tree
which had been getting thick
and you reached out too far to lop
one more superflous stick
and that is when the ladder fell
and so, of course, did you.
I rushed you to the doctor
just like when you had the flu
except this time your eyes were rolling
back into your head
because your pinky snapped in two.
I'm glad that you weren't dead.
And now you have some little screws
holding the bone together
and a blocky splint to wear
in this nice springy weather.
And our baby took several steps
until she stopped and saw
she was too far up off the ground
so she dropped down and crawled.
And I made logos and labels and emails
and you made calculations
and tips and wages to put in the bank
to save for a downpayment.
Our seedling have sprawled across my desk
and into pots on the floor.
I am surprised how much they've grown
but maybe we've grown more.

Someone in the Neighborhood

Someone in the neighborhood is making lots of noise ripping something apart.
Someone in the neighborhood is driving the curves with a broken heart.
Someone in the neighborhood is being taken for walks by their pet.
Someone in the neighborhood hasn't enjoyed the warm weather yet.
Someone in the neighborhood is remembering better times.
Someone in the neighborhood is racking her brain for rhymes.

Don't Go to Facebook

Don't go to facebook for inspiration when you're trying to be poetic.
You'll be sucked in for hours and come out feeling confused, amused, and pathetic.
You'll have seven tabs open with articles you've been recommended to read
and three more tabs with giveaways of things you probably need.
And you'll find out someone is pregnant and someone else is married
and so much information that your own thoughts will be buried.

Life With the Blinds Closed

You live life with the blinds closed
but I am here to pull them open
with a zipping sound as I pull the chord down.
Yes, soon you'll be livin' and hopin'.