Tuesday, April 29, 2014

What I think in the moment between breaths



I have spent my life
cataloguing
the hues in a gray sky
and the diameter of raindrops
as they fall.
I have stood, arms outstretched,
measuring the time it takes
to achieve maximum saturation.
I have used calipers
to measure the wrinkles
on my toes caused by standing
in puddles for days.
And I have wondered,
if each drop could carry
a small bit of me,
how long would it take
for a Spring shower
to carry me
to Summer.

Monday, April 28, 2014

What is this settled you speak of?

Sunshine runs barefoot
through my back yard,
dancing through the too long grass.
Bliss encapsulated
in the glass jar of a moment.
Though moments pass
and children age
life, seen from a distance,
moves like the Earth
through the cosmos--
always in a different spot
but, somehow, seen
as the same.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

The super secret location of happiness



The morning Sun is playing with illusions.
Dappling my wall
with louvered windows,
disjointed as they fall
across my desk before breaking
onto the wall.

As a child
I would seek these projections,
angled and shifted,
on the floor
and lie down in their warmth
hoping to fall through
to a land
of light and happiness.

Today
I find myself wondering
if all it took was time
to make it to the other side.
So I wave to the little boy
to let him know
we're here.
We made it.

Monday, April 21, 2014

The seven year old workout


Ignoring this idea
that I am an adult,
I obey my daughter's command
and follow:
Up the stairs,
hand over hand across the bars,
then up the rock wall
to the platform
where we slide back down
while static electricity
builds and releases.
Before I can comment,
we are off again,
repeating variations
on the pattern
until we collapse
on the ground,
face up,
taking in the simple wonder
of a cloudless spring sky.
And Time,
radiating like energy from a child,
stops
and allows me to gape in wonder
at her magnificence
before winding her arms
and starting again.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

The stories come out on wet city streets


I imagine
that red brick
absorbs memories
which cause it to darken
with age.
Porous outer layers
stripped of their potash
provide shelter
for the secrets and fears
of the ages
until rain,
kicked up by
those moving too fast
to listen
splashes against the grain
and the brick
sighs out a
long forgotten story.
If only
you will listen.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Mastic


I am seeking shelter from time.
Crayon drawings, pinned to my wall
have cracked the seal
and the yesterdays begin
to bubble through.
I open my umbrella,
trying to deflect the flow
but it quickly pools
around my feet
and I find myself
tumbling through
half-remembered days.
I swim hard, against the current,
searching, it seems for
some unknowable moment
until fatigue sets in
and exhausted and defeated
I tumble back through.
I refresh the mastic
on the back of the drawing
and cover the hole
but carefully leave
a corner upturned
so one day, when I'm stronger,
I can swim again.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Why I've given up on Focus


Seven year old feet
have not yet learned
to travel in straight
lines,
so a simple trip
from a --> b
finds us at a1 (
a beautiful mosaic
made from what others
have thrown away)
and a2 (a family of ducks
swimming down the Delaware run)
to b1 (yes, we passed by b)
(the 1891 cornerstone
on University Hall)
and I wonder how long
have I let these blinders
build up around my eyes
that I've missed all
that is around me.

I blame all of those adults
who kept telling me to focus.