February 2026
It is February first
Who made the first knot
so that I can make
turn string into knitting?
It is February second
Who first spun wool?
it is February third
Who made the first book
so that I can give
a gift certificate
to my friend
on her 74th birthday
who loves to read?
It is February fourth
there is moonlight
behind the clouds
and the dispersion
of porch lights
in the mist
It is February fifth
see under: love
a novel by
David Grossman
grappling, struggling,
deconstructing
language to imagine
the unimaginable
It is February sixth
the dissonance
that is everywhere
as people navigate
the joys and struggles
of every day
against the airwaves
and soundwaves and microwaves
of global disaster
It is February seventh
“Her intellect and emotions
trailed her
like thunderheads.”
It is February eighth
How is it
we recognized
each other
at once
standing there
on the railway platform?
It is February ninth
I am obsessed
with Timothy West
and Prunella Scales
and their grand
canal journeys
I don’t want them
to end, but
everything
comes to an end.
It is February tenth
another school shooting
nine dead
25 injured
in a small town
in Canada
It is February eleventh
What does it mean
to mark one’s 68th
date of birth?
It seems in February
there is always a false spring
warmer weather
brighter sunshine
bluer skies
The snow is melting
the daylight is lengthening
True spring will come.
It is February twelfth
A day of wet snow
A day to play
Scrabble with
a friend and eat sushi
It is February thirteenth
a Friday
a day to stay inside
and beware of black cats
It is February fourteenth
a day that celebrates
love in all its guises
It is February fifteenth
I long for a bouquet
of peonies
It is February sixteenth
Northern lights last night
blue sky and sunlit clouds
this morning
the morning of Jerry’s surgery
It is February seventeenth
an abscess not a tumor
an infection in his brain
full of fungus
and removed
Medicine and miracles
It is February eighthteentkh
All day I waited for her call
All day I waited
but the call never came
it never came
It is February nineteenth and twentieth
the world is
white again
cold again
winter again
quiet again
It is February twenty-second
We walked along River Road
in the cold and wind
the sky blue
the sun bright
decrying the
keeping of secrets
It is February twenty-third
one day
the tumor
will not stop
bleeding
It is February twenty-fourth
each snowflake unique
but similar
falling to earth
similarity
and uniqueness
in the playing out
of our lives
and senses
It is February twenty-fifth
another credit card scam
another day of wishing
I could live in the world
of “All Creatures
Great and Small”
It is February twenty-sixth
a piece of blueberry cornbread
a cup of Assam tea
a morning of waiting
for news
recovery or death?
It is February twenty-seventh
Seth should have died in the crash
hit head-on by a semi
but it was not his time
Are there angels among us?
Tristan Vogl is one.
It is February twenty-eighth
Will the all cotton t-shirt
“Yes, I do need
all these avocados”
make him laugh
on this 54th birthday?
January 2026
It is January first
I just want to turn
into a bear
and hibernate
It is January second
another round of
snow plowing
It is January third
Sometimes I worry
that I am too in love
with words
It is January fourth
sun
a day without snowfall
a day to Mountain Market
to restock the pantry
It is January fifth
a return to the
snow apocalypse
It is January sixth
who made this shovel
this broom, this winter coat
and hat and glove
to keep me safe and warm?
It is January seventh
the inexpressible beauty
of walking beneath blue sky
on a bright-white
snow-packed road
breathing in air so fresh
I do not want to return
inside walls
It is January eighth and ninth
Does everything happen
for a reason? This snow?
This loss of blue sky
and sunlight? This
inability to see
out the window
above the kitchen sink?
It is January tenth
Ice, avalanches,
stay home
don’t drive
finish knitting
the reversible hat
It is January eleventh
pneumonia is a
showstopper
when you’re old
It is January twelfth
melting snow
and streets of ice
It is January thirteenth
laundry and rain
clean socks
and warm boots
It is January fourteenth
a tumor
that won’t stop growing
an infection
that won’t heal
It is January fifteenth
I hear a plane
but I cannot see the mountains
It is January sixteenth
our bodies become infected,
diseased, broken, old
and bleed
of the past
It is January seventeenth
A day to see the mountains
and lavender sky
and send a letter to
Margaret Atwood
postage $1.70
It is January eighteenth
4: 15 p.m.
Behind the white mountains
the clouds appear on fire
across a sky of blues and turquoise
It is January nineteenth
In the words of
Martin Luther King
“only when it is dark enough
can we see the stars”
But where does the sickness come from?
It is January twentieth
the blood
is so red
the scab
is still a scab
It is January twenty-first
Is fortune bestowed?
Me in my warm home
debt free
lovely friends
and breakfast
eggs on toast
It is January twenty-second
the date
that signifies
my mother’s birth
in 1937
It is January twenty-third
sun on the shore
waves singing on the rocks
a walk around the harbor
It is January twenty-fourth
another death
at the hands of ICE
and the sycophants
of Trump
It is January twenty-fifth
I miss my body
my body when
I played tennis and softball
and jogged every morning
It is January twenty-sixth
It is still early
still the clouds
occlude the sun
I want a second
cup of tea
Assam and strong
It is January twenty-seventh
I stay inside
she walks the dog
Wordle in two
It is January twenty-eighth
the ice
is thick
and wet
from the rain
It is January twenty-ninth
another leaving do
another friend sailing south
another letter posted
It is January thirtieth
Why is it
all I want to do
is knit
beautiful things?
It is January thirty-first
the light of the moon
making the snow
sparkle like diamonds
on a winter night
on the last day
of January 2026
December 2025
It is December first
thick wet fog
a haircut
a drizzly evening walk
It is December second
whoever invented postal services
Bravo. $15.50 for 20 first class stamps
It is December third
this year’s holiday card
with the Miz Katie painting “BFFs”
posted
It is December fourth
Do I believe that
Käthe Kollwitz’s last words were
“Good Luck, everyone”?
Sigrid does.
It is December fifth
a sinking at the harbor
of an 81-foot tender
with 1300 gallons of fuel
It is December sixth
snow upon more snow
yet still the juncos visit
fluttering in and out
up and under
It is December seventh
a 7.0 earthquake
I did not feel
and a visit from
my snowplow angel
It is December eighth
clear and cold
the Great British Baking Show
and knitting
It is December ninth
the sun
but no warmth
the snow so white
and still
It is December tenth
minus two degrees
It is December eleventh
and twelfth
tending the fire
moving wood
from the shed to the porch
and reading a life
Margaret Atwood’s life
and remembering
her readings in San Francisco
so funny, so formidable, so gracious
a writer who knits
It is December thirteenth
the cancelling of the ferry
the hurling of the whitecaps on the water
coffee with Margaret at FoundRoot
a drive out Lutak
It is December fourteenth
how to stem the ugliness
the violence and hatred
and shootings
It is December fifteenth
my fingers turned to icicles
pushing the shovel
up and down the driveway
It is December sixteenth
still so cold
but listening to
Lesley Manville read
Marble Hall Murders
delightful
It is December seventeenth
a lemony caesar salad
with perfectly baked
crunchy, crunchy croutons
It is December eighteenth
this cold weather
is keeping me
from walking mile
after mile after mile
It is December nineteenth
the instant, the moment
ordinary and mundane
and everything changes
It is December twentieth
below zero
and still the juncos
and jays visit
It is December twenty first
a child is born
friends and new grandparents
rejoice
It is December twenty-second
in the dream
he appeared
young and beautiful
like a surfer from the 70s
blond, blond hair
tan, his laughing blue eyes
and muscular body
He was standing before a giant rock
in a dry, barren, orange landscape
I didn’t recognize him
at first
Brian
and then I realized
he had died years ago
He told me my time
is coming to an end
still the birds visit
It is December twenty-third
I plug in the battery
to make sure the car will start
to take Margaret
to the ferry on yet
another near zero day
It is December twenty-fourth
Christmas eve
I am tired of the cold
but delighted by
“The Correspondent”
by Virginia Evans
It is December twenty-fifth
the celebration of a birth
of a man who is still
two-thousand years later
influencing the lives
and events of the world
It is December twenty-sixth
The narrator breaks her wrist
She also writes
“The good that comes
out of the bad
can be unbearable.”
A line that reduces
me to tears.
It is 11: 43 a.m. and the sun
is shining directly into
my front window
It is December twenty-seventh
a winter storm warning
stay inside
and watch the snow
accumulate
It is December twenty-eighth
so much snow to shovel
a pulled back muscle
I’m ready for the end
of winter
It is December twenty-ninth
I wish hibernation
were an option
It is December thirtieth
Binging “The Closer”
on Netflix
Knitting a reversible hat
with fine merino wool
It is December thirty-first
the landscape is glistening
in record-setting inches of snow
as 2025 comes to an end
November 2025
It is November first
Lindt Lindor dark chocolate
a cup of tea
a walk along the harbor
and Ian McEwan’s words
before a good night’s sleep
It is November second
when clocks turn back
my body feels betrayed
It is November third
under a sky of sunshine
that bows
to a full moon night
I send a card to Sigrid
It is November fourth
“What remained
was not even a woman
but a poetic convention,
the shadow of a woman
on the cave walls
of a man’s imagination.”
What Can We Know
page 272
It is November fifth
How did she do it?
What was the moment
she conceived “Mitz”?
A masterpiece
of imagination.
A whole generation
revealed by a marmoset
in all its domesticity
and its beastly beauty.
It is November sixth
I have decided
to give the moon a name
and save it from being
a common noun
but it will be my secret
It is November seventh
Her language
Her sensibilities
Her declarations
about being a
woman writer
This is what
attracted Sigrid
and me
to Virginia
“I wanted to read
everything”
It is November eighth
two gunshots
while I walked along Front Street
a siren blaring, light blazing
speeding police car
Something had felt off
the way the cars were parked
Someone was hurt
Someone was shot
and I hadn’t paid attention
It is November ninth
the first snowfall of the season
heavy, wet snow
trees down
electricity interrupted
quiet, candles
a day spent inside
inside my pajamas
with the latest
Thursday Club mystery
by Richard Osman
It is November tenth
“I have tried.
I have put down one word after the other.
Knowing that every word could have been different.
As my friend’s life, like any life,
could have been different.
I have tried.
Love and honor and pity and pride
and compassion and sacrifice—
What does it matter if I failed.”
It is November eleventh
Rather than stay in her car
with the doors locked
and call the police
she shot him with the
gun she carries in her purse
It is November twelfth
Since the shooting
I feel on the verge of tears
all the time
the center cannot hold
It is November thirteenth
A Margaret Atwood day
“Once a single choice is made
it excludes alternatives”
“A story isn’t great
because it’s true,
it’s great because
it’s good”
It is November fourteenth
A driverless car
a Waymo
killed a much beloved
neighborhood cat
obviously
it did not stop
to help
It is November fifteenth
“Lytton
It would be charming
if you could come to tea
tomorrow (Wednesday) 4:30
I shall be alone
Perhaps you’ll ring up
Virginia”
It is November sixteenth
“there are far worse
things that people face
than being short”
Yes, Terry.
We are lucky.
It is November seventeenth
Sometimes a dog
a beautiful dog
a dog friend
is pure love
and pure dog joy
that was Sachi
It is November eighteenth
the event in Boston
is sold out
fingers crossed
Sigrid’s travels
bestowed
an “instant
yet passing rapport”
It is November nineteenth
My father was appalled by platform shoes.
“You know, you have to get off them sometime.”
Who was my father?
I was a teenager.
I ignored him.
What did he know about fashion?
But now
I wonder
if he was telling me something
quite profound.
It is November twentieth
oh i love these! she replied
thank you for your kind heart
It is November twenty-first
sidecars, stingers
cocktails in a novel about
a 1963 book club
of troublesome women
It is November twenty-second
cars fill the school parking lot
another holiday bazaar
I walk on by
It is November twenty-third
so many chickadees this morning
no rain
bits of blue sky and cloud sun
and thirty degrees
It is November twenty-fourth
a stellar jay can live as long
as sixteen years in the wild
It is November twenty-fifth
The final book of Lyra
and Pantalaimon’s story
It is November twenty-sixth
What does Pan’s name mean
and why did I never ask before?
All compassionate, all merciful
It is November twenty-seventh
clear, cold, blue sky
white snow, icy roads
sixteen degrees
a day to give thanks
It is November twenty-eighth
magnificence can come in
the form of a sentence
It is November twenty-ninth
the wonder of a sunrise
that makes coral and pink clouds
against a sky-blue sky
It is November thirtieth
the world shifts
when you ask
where stories come from
October 2025
It is October first
out Chilkoot
we note the water rippling
against the rocks
the people fishing
the sun radiant
the birds basking
the bears hidden
It is October second
how quickly the weather changes
blowing winds
frantic leaves
the varied thrush
heading south
It is October third
sunshine on
a red tin roof
after a morning of gray
It is October fourth
a moment of morning sunlight
the reds and oranges
yellows and gold
glorious
a visit from nine stellar jays
and a dozen flitting juncos
It is October fifth
the mornings are darker
more leaves are falling
gloves and hat and scarf
It is October sixth
a full moon
glowing
behind drifting clouds
I must stop buying books
but then I read a review
or hear an interview
and know
I must possess
those words
It is October seventh
the snow on
the mountaintops
has disappeared
a night
of a bright harvest moon
It is October eighth
A hidden moon
a walk along the harbor
a string of LED lights
illuminating Chilkoot dock
It is October ninth
We counted the tines
on the his antlers
ten on each side
as he stood
bullish
in the yard
peering into the house
intimidating two young moose
the mama ignoring the scene
busily munching the twigs and leaves
It is October tenth
the bright waning moon
against the early morning
chilly blue sky
a friend dies
and a bit of you
disappears
It is October eleventh
morning frost
hungry jays
an afternoon walk along the harbor
to celebrate this
glorious
golden
blue sky blue water
day
It is October twelfth
How many more years
will I be able to go
under the house
to close the vents?
“I learned I couldn’t
shed light on love
other than to feel
its coming and goings
and be grateful.”
Diane Keaton
1946-2025
It is October thirteenth
To not be
to not exist
to not sit on the porch
and watch the clouds
and look out on the
mountains and trees
and feed the birds
and cuddle cats
and wonder
It is October fourteenth
A dark and stormy night
cheered by moose burgers
and Rummikub
with good, kind friends
It is October fifteenth
Will this cease fire last?
Or will it be
as Aaron David Miller
said during an interview
on Fresh Air
“a deadly and cruel
and unforgiving
wash, rinse and repeat
cycle”
The roots of hatred and fear
run strong and deep
It is October sixteenth
from his wallet
he pulled out
slips of paper
with words
from his reading
that he felt
beautiful
and sacred
It is October seventeenth
the return of new snow
to the mountaintops
It is October eighteenth
A day spent reading
and drinking tea
with the genius that
is Robert Galbraith
and “The Hallmarked Man”
It is October eighteenth
Alaska Day, 1867
Why can’t we just be
people of the world
and live where a
landscape and culture
take hold of our soul?
It is October nineteenth
the snow is
creeping lower
on the mountains
It is October twentieth
the blanket is knitted
all that is left is
weaving in the ends
and giving it away
It is October twenty-first
the day Yuko
relinquished her Japanese citizenship
to become a citizen
of America
It is October twenty-second
I dreamt of buttermilk pancakes
It is October twenty-third
My thoughts
are subsumed
by Arundhati Roy’s
“Mother Mary Comes to Me”
It is October twenty-fourth
I want “listening eyes
like lakes in high mountains”
It is October twenty-fifth
Starless on my night walk
where streetlights
turn on and off
headlights blind
and darkness is not dark
It is October twenty-sixth
a barking dog
a night of stars
and mountains redolent
with new white snow
It is October twenty-seventh
It is not hope that’s needed for change
but determination and imagination
and constitutional amendments
It is October twenty-eighth
Why was I so obsessed
with “The Little Match Girl”?
It is October twenty-ninth
still
nine years on
her imprint on my soul
like stars
hidden
by the morning sun
It is October thirtieth
I walk
in the rain
at night
a flashlight at hand
just in case
It is October thirty-first
no costumes or masks
or knocks at the door
expecting a treat
or a trick
September 2025
It is September first
Labor Day
the sun revealing
the sky a cloudless blue
as the mist melts
and the silence breathes
It is September second
my father would be 93 today
had he not died at age 79
It is September third
a warm cool morning breeze
a return of the robins
a day of heat and beauty
It is September fourth
during our last conversation
she asked
Have you ever thought about moving back to the Bay Area?
Why didn’t I ask, why are you asking?
It is September fifth
a young junco
decided to go
fly about in the house
and then panicked
against the windows
until I enveloped
a towel around the tiny feathered body
and soothed her
to the open door
It is September sixth
Is it here I belong?
“Belonging is more about the ritual
and dedicated attention within us
to something beloved that matters.”
It is September seventh
In reading we are always in conversation
It is September eighth
the anniversary of Maggie’s suicide
from girlhood to adulthood
from subject to object
from infinite possibilities
to society’s diminishments
It is September ninth
the wooly bear caterpillars
are back in town
and once again
the stove pipe on my roof
has been repaired
It is September tenth
light rain
tree wind hula
It is September eleventh
9/11
the day
hate
was released into
the air,
into the very molecules
we breathe
It is September twelfth
chills
muscle aches
runny nose
sore throat
an assassination
It is September thirteenth
How do we end this
pandemic of hate?
It is September fourteenth
the sick has moved to my chest
Is this just flu or COVID?
It is September fifteenth
I am always astonished
how something as microscopic
as a virus or bacteria
can take down a life
It is September sixteenth
the anniversary of Bob’s death
It is September seventeenth
the ugly coughing
It is September eighteenth
“Listers”
a documentary on a subculture
of a subculture of Birders
hilarious, fascinating, inspiring
It is September nineteenth
gray, rain
pain
my chest
or is it my heart?
It is September twentieth
still I am unwell
Who will feed the birds
when I am gone?
It is September twenty-first
Once I watched her mindlessly eat
half a jar of peanut butter
It is September twenty-second
Why does my body forsake
the eating of chocolate
when I am sick?
It is September twenty-third
A letter from Sylvia
her beloved husband died in January
It is September twenty-fourth
Where do the robins go in winter?
It is September twenty-fifth
New snow on the mountains
It is September twenty-sixth
It’s the turning on
of artificial light
I do not like
It is September twenty-seventh
I feel like a word
written in pencil
a rain-soaked
wind blown
fall yellow
leaf
easily erased
It is September twenty-eighth
a slow start
on a gray Sunday morn
a single magpie
amidst the jays
It is September twenty-ninth
stars
dancing northern lights
and a satellite
skating across the night
It is September thirtieth
so blue the sky
so white the clouds
so quiet the eagles
soaring in a circle
praising the sun
August 2025
It is August first
Karen’s 79th birthday
a muggy, raining morning
no birdsong
no song
It is August second
a morning
of pine siskins
juncos and jays
It is August third
another friend
putting her house on the market
leaving for warmer climes
It is August fourth
With no sun forecast
I finally washed the windows
It is August fifth
Nina Simone
singing
“Who knows
where the time goes?”
by Sandy Denny
(1947-1978)
It is August sixth
a day of burnt toast
broken eggs
and laundry
drying in the sun
It is August seventh
morning tea on the porch
afternoon walk along the Chilkat River
and the evening spent
with Gretel Ehrlich
and “Unsolaced”
It is August eighth
how to describe
gray clouds floating overhead
revealing blue sky and white clouds beneath
Pentimento?
It is August ninth
five weddings
Anne’s 80th birthday
celebration at the Distillery
and rain
It is August tenth
the leaves
fall, float, fly and dance
Not yet
I plead
It is August eleventh
ripe
red
rain washed
thimbleberries
Delicious
It is August twelfth
last night’s moon
shining through the cloud
this morning’s sun
sparkling in the dew
It is August thirteenth
a glacier melts
a land slides
a river floods
It is August fourteenth
When did the robins leave?
When did the thistle
and hawkweed invade?
It is August fifteenth
a warm wind
a barking dog
a bear walking on Sunshine Street
It is August sixteenth
a card and lovely note
from Marge Piercy
a game of Rummikub
with Yuko and Ed
It is August seventeenth
a hawk is hiding in the trees
like me in my house
on this rainy day
It is August eighteenth
A woman of 29
who had climbed Kilimanjaro
used ChatGPT
to write her suicide note
It is August nineteenth
the air is filled
with fireweed fluff
against a bright blue sky
painted with billowy white clouds
It is August twentieth
if gender is a construct
why change your body?
It is August twenty-first
Barb’s return
until Tuesday
It is August twenty-second
She considers it her
Fresh Air tax
sending out her laundry
It is August twenty-third
sun, heat
allergies
and a quiet day
reading Karin Slaughter’s
“Criminal”
It is August twenty-fourth
a potluck
at Paradise Cove
It is August twenty-fifth
fire
floods
landslides
melting permafrost
What is the fate
of Rainbow Glacier
and Paradise Cove?
It is August twenty-sixth
a lone sandpiper
pecking and skittering
along the shore
It is August twenty-seventh
Her favorite sandwich
is PB&J
and french fries
must be crispy
It is August twenty-eighth
her capacious intelligence
her fine mind
her love of fairy tales
It is August twenty-ninth
I miss the snow
on the mountaintops
When will it return?
It is August thirtieth
a controlled burn
filling my house
with its smoke
its smell and
irritation
It is the last day of August 2025
and there is sunshine
July 2025
It is July first
51 degrees
7 a.m. and quiet
until the kettle boils
for Assam Golden Tip tea
I want to polish her every word
and put them in a box
just for me
Obsession
a theme in
Kirsten Menger-Anderson’s
“The Expert of Subtle Revisions”
It is July second
it is raining
my feet are cold
even in my winter socks
a good day to visit
the dental hygienist
to have my teeth
scraped of tartar
and tea stains
and polished clean
It is July third
A day to sort donated books
for the annual 4th of July
Friends of the Library
book sale
I feel felled
by dust and mold
and in need of a bath
It is another July fourth
without sunshine
with early morning rain
the annual parade
Barb & Jerry in a Tesla
the Grand Marshalls
and a flag
flying
bereft of beneficence
It is July fifth
floods in Texas
garage sales
morning rain
afternoon warmth
evening walk
It is July sixth
I want it to stop raining
I want the sun
I want warmth
I want to put away my winter socks
It is July seventh
I wanted to be an athlete, a dancer
tall, flat chested and unstinting
It is July eighth
and unquietly raining
I am knitting a pattern
“Whisper Poncho” by Caroline Hegwer
and listening to “The English Patient”
read by Jennifer Ehle
“It is not out of omission
but preoccupation”
It is July ninth
stop making me cry
I reply to her text
lamenting that she knows
no one at the grocery store
my eyes are in a constant
state of puffy
It is July tenth
tell no one
that the house has sold
contingencies
everything feels contingent
and inevitable
the leaving
the rain
It is July eleventh
I live in a rain forest
everything feels so delicate
everything feels so resilient
I wish the birds
could tell me
about their wild and precious lives
It is July twelfth
an afternoon blue sky
predicated by weather knowing clouds
white, gray, wispy, billowing, bulging
reckoning
and young juncos
flying in and out
hungry
and can I say
happy?
It is July thirteenth
laundry drying in the sunshine
cottonwood snow floating in the air
a book returned to the library
“The Names” by Florence Knapp
Can a name shape a destiny?
It is July fourteenth
finally a morning sky
that let me watch the sun rise
above the mountain
from my bedroom window
It is July fifteenth
morning rain
afternoon sun
the sweet smell of summer
at an evening spent
at Battery Point
with Yuko and Ed
It is July sixteenth
the air is redolent
with clover and grasses
and daisies and peonies
and tiger lillies
orange and tall and strong
I breathe deeply and long
It is July seventeenth
a cloudy day
a day of listening
and remembering
the songs of Janis Ian
breaking silence
It is July eighteenth
cloudy
with a side of
morning coffee
with friends
and an evening walk
along the harbor
the sun warming
our backs
It is July nineteenth
overcast
a good day to wash the car
stop by the Farmer’s Market
listen to an audio book
about a 77-year-old woman
applying and being selected
to be part of “British Bakes”
and to unravel
a knitting adventure gone wrong
It is July twentieth
a perfect summer day
to do laundry
drying quickly on the line
It is July twenty-first
There is still snow
on the Chilkat Mountains
but something in the air
is causing sneezing
itchy throats and eyes
tiredness
It is July twenty-second
I hate the weight and size
of my breasts
the loss of muscle
and bone
my chin hairs
and mustache
the crepey skin
and age spots
the disconnect
between one’s outer self
and inner being
It is July twenty-third
the pine grosbeak
has returned in all
its shimmering redpink glory
alone
It is July twenty-fourth
Burying myself
in a Will Trent novel
sickened by
the war in Gaza
that is genocide
What would
Primo Levi
and Elie Wiesel
say?
It is July twenty-fifth
finally
a challenge
that dissembles
the ugliness
the blackness
the derangement
of his soul
the complete
darkness of his being
It is July twenty-sixth
there is still snow
on Santa Claus mountain
there is still
the kiss of clover
in the sunshine air
In the afternoon
an email from Sigrid
“My turn to thank you”
It is July twenty-seventh
I want to turn into a cat
and visit Sigrid
if only she didn’t live
in Manhatten
It is July twenty-eighth
How do we understand
serendipity?
How do I measure
that the book I noted
just happens to be
the book she is reading?
Sonya Walger
Sigrid Nunez
is reading “Lion”
It is July twenty-ninth
Anna’s twelfth birthday
the patch of strawberries
planted by her father
now overwhelmed with weeds
a reminder
of last summer’s sale
friends moving away
It is July thirtieth
earthquake
tsunami
yesterday’s heat
dampened by
morning’s rain
one
red
thimbleberry
It is July thirty-first
and soon
the cherries
will be ripe
and the blueberries
abundant
June 2025
It is June first
I’m still wearing
winter socks
merino wool
thick and warm
cashmere sweaters
men’s extra large
baggy, long and cozy
It is June first
the phlox and lupin
are just beginning to bloom
as the yellow flower of the skunk cabbage
crumples and retreats
beneath the cottonwood tree
shining with new leaves
It is June second
the sky is gray
the wind, cold
keeping me from
quiet mornings
quiet on the porch
with tea and toast
watching the song birds
and squirrels scavenge for food
the eagles circle high and graceful
the morning dogs and their humans walking by
It is June second
two days from now my friend
would have turned 78
I would have sent her a card
maybe a gift
We would have talked on the phone
or met at an exotic location
It is June third
the morning light is shrouded
the air, frowning, asking
Where is the sun?
I long to hang my laundry outside to dry
and then sun arrives
late, during lunch at the pier
and then leaves too soon
It is June fourth
her birthday
1947
my gut in turmoil
maybe the beans weren’t cooked
as Vanessa suggested
but I walk to town
have coffee with Margaret
and see the blanket and hat I knitted
keeping Polly and Dylan’s baby
warm and comforted
It is June fifth
a dizzy night
and morning
Cause?
the dandelions I whacked
the soup at the restaurant I ate
the mushrooms I roasted for dinner last night?
dehydration?
But it is the cold wind
that keeps me inside
listening to the audio book “Drood”
and knitting
It is June sixth
and with it, sunshine
changing bedding,
laundry, dusting,
vacuuming,
a walk to town for groceries
and listening to an interview with Prue Leith
on finding your passion
and being oblivious to other people
not liking what you like
and what you want to do
It is June seventh
a gray gray sky
and cold cold wind
Wordle in two
Afternoon rain
An Australian novel
“Resurrection Bay”
mystery, murder, trust, betrayal
a deaf private investigator
a beautiful Koori woman
It is June eighth
still gray weather
and winds
and knitting
and reading
and watching an 8-part drama via Amazon Prime
Better Sisters
It is June ninth
the sun is playing
peek-a-boo,
the wind is still spinning
the driftwood mobiles
hanging on my porch
I want to write
of the news of the world
but it only makes me cry
despair at humanity
wonder at my fortune
wonder at all the sacrifices
and hardships and sufferings
that gave me this life
so I walk to town
visit Margaret
leave a belated gift for Christy
pick up the new Graham Swift short story collection
from the library
It is June tenth
at 7 a.m.
the sun is streaming through
my kitchen windows
I feel warmth
but there are clouds
and raven cries
and jays staring from their perch
on the rafter tie
This morning
it is warm enough to sit on the porch
to say hello to the juncos and chickadees
and drink my tea
It is June eleventh
finally a day to hang my laundry outside
a day Steve can weed whack the dandelions
and mow grass
a day to send a bouquet of flowers
to Karen Rosenbaum and Ben
that I hope says “itoshi”
It is June twelfth
the smell of yesterday’s mown lawn
cloud whispers
wind whispers
across a blue sky
a fat robin with their fat orange chest
Vixen today’s Wordle
and just like that
the clouds reign
the sun acquiesces
and I retreat inside
for a cup of tea
and another rainy day
ending with nighttime thunder
It is June thirteenth
cloud cover so thick
the mountains have disappeared
and still the rain
but a perfect day
for Joseph to repair the U-joint
on the CRV
so I can die with this car
It is June fourteenth
the sky is still gray
no rain, flat light
the NO KINGS march
Democracy NOT Trumprocracy
“Racism is a small dick problem”
“All tyranny needs to gain a foothold
is for people of good conscience
to remain silent”
It is June fifteenth
sunshine, finally
but fires in Canada
forecast air quality
“unhealthy for sensitive adults”
It is June sixteenth
white sky
thick smokey air
the baby blanket finished
and rain
It is June seventeenth
sunshine, headache
lunch with Barb at a “Taste of Deishu”
and a walk along the harbor
tired
It is June eighteenth
white flowers on the thimbleberry bushes
the pinks and purples of the phlox
covering the soil in the garden
the sparrows and humming birds dashing in and out
white clouds, blue sky
a new phrase to add to the language of menopause
“vaginal atrophy”
from Catherine Newman’s novel
“Sandwich”
It is June nineteenth
a cold, gray morning
a warmer afternoon
lunch with Barb and Jerry
a walk to Jones Point
in all its purple lupin and iris glory
if only the haze would subside
and release the sunlight
It is June twentieth
Friday
I finished reading Liz Moore’s
“Long Bright River”
addiction, corruption, trauma
and the staple of crime fiction:
violence against women
It is June twenty-first
bike race weekend
sunshine
the annual Fisherman’s BBQ
hazy blue sky
and America bombing Iran
It is June twenty-second
With every war in the Middle East
I think of Marge Piercy
I think about Marge Piercy a lot
and today, specifically, the 1991 novel
“He, She and It”
The Big Burn
It is June twenty-third
Men and bombs
and the South Korean inspired
feminist movement 4B
Say no to men
Don’t date
Don’t copulate
Don’t marry
Don’t procreate
The B pronounced Bee
denotes negation in Korean
Ah, Lysistrata
It is June twenty-fourth
all along the road
buttercups in flower
shining yellow
clamoring for purchase
among the horse tail and goat’s beard
while men want to blow up the world
It is June twenty-fifth
Summer solstice has come and gone
yet everywhere
the cheer of daisies
Who can resist
their soft white petals
and yellow faces?
Not me.
Some come home with me
and settle into a vase
Hello, they say,
be happy.
It is June twenty-sixth
gray sky
greedy stellar jays
Bill Moyers
the beautiful, wise, curious
Bill Moyers
died today
It is June twenty-seventh
the ’97 CRV is with Joseph
having its bearings,
ball joints, bushings
and struts replaced
Cha-ching
More than I spent on my first car
my zippy, racy 1972 yellow Toyota Celica
It is June twenty-eighth
rain
and after rain
and more rain
the air
refreshed
baptized
52 degrees
and cashmere all day
It is June twenty-ninth
Is sacrificing one’s life for another a sign of true love?
This is the question Alex Michaelides asks
in “The Silent Patient”
inspired by the Euripides play
“Alcestis”
It is the last day of June
a morning I can finally enjoy on my porch
with my tea and peanut-loving jays
the smell of lilacs
filling the sunshine air
and mostly blue sky
listening to Karen Carpenter sing
a hummingbird
a dragonfly
a noisy yellow jacket
a fat robin
laundry hanging on the line
Lisa’s birthday
I left a message
but it was not returned
May 11 2025
The Hawk
They disappeared
all at once
the chickadees and juncos and sparrows
happily pecking at seeds and grains
into the cover of trees
they flew
And then I saw the predator
beautiful in flight
casting a shadow
and looking for prey
May 5 2025
After listening to Ocean Vuong’s NYT interview
There is a cruelty
inside of me
A cruelty
that revealed itself
at seven
on a playground
when I was teased
for being small
I pulled down his pants
I humiliated a little boy
and I was punished
and shamed
shame so deep
it etched itself
on every cell in my body
but the cruelty stayed
the desire to hurt, stayed
but also stayed repressed,
sublimated, storied
The angels and devils on shoulders
The heaven and hell of the afterlife
Cruelty never leaves
It comes out in words
it stakes out thoughts
it turns backs
it spreads like a disease
it is a shadow that never abates
a darkness that must find light
reflection
forgiveness
and kindness
kindness given
without hope
April 2025
In the morning
when all is quiet
and cold
And the sun is rising
and the moon is hiding
I open the curtains
that keep my neighbor’s
lights
out of my bedroom
the blackout curtains
that help hold the warmth
inside
when the darkness falls
This morning
like other mornings
there will be laundry
and tea
and toast
and a dozen juncos
picking at the earth
taking seed after seed into their beaks
And a family of jays
hoping for peanuts
And squirrels
and chickadees
and the songs
of robins and varied thrush
And the blooms of crocus
and the snow
melting
on Mount Ripinsky
making ponds and streams
and creeks
searching for the Chilkat River
and the ocean beyond
Jan 8 2025
I am a slave to electricity
the kettle
the washing machine
the cooktop and oven
the light
when it’s dark
when I read in bed
knit while watching “Vera”
listen to the radio
dance to music
sing along with Doris
I am a slave to electricity
the vacuum
the heat pump and water heater
the computer
the ceiling fan
moving hot air
from loft to living room
the answering machine
24/7
always available, always waiting
just in case
but there is a wood stove
and wood
and candles
warmth, light
hot water, tea
quiet
but for the wood popping and cracking
stillness
but for the snow snowing
the rain raining
the sun sunning
the wind winding
and thought
not a slave to electricity
December 10 2024
What will you find
and hold onto?
the yellow ceramic bowl
purchased in Instanbul?
the skeins of yarn
unknitted?
the cashmere sweaters
worn and loved?
the signed books of Maira and Sigrid
and Graham and Tom?
the pots of geraniums
red and white and coral and pink?
What will you find
in the drawers and closets and cupboards
that will be thrown away
given away
taken away
to a new home
a new life
a different time?
Who will wear my grandmother’s rings?
cook with my mother’s Pyrex dishes from the 1950s?
hang the paintings from our trip to China in 1991?
What will be found in the objects
the lamp made by Susan Johnson
given as a house-warming gift by Marilyn?
the old and tarnished silver
stamped with tulips?
the furniture made in the 1880s
that travelled to America from Japan
in the 1990s?
Who will sit in my chairs
and enjoy the craftsmanship?
hang the stained glass panel
and celebrate light?
place a netsuke on a shelf
and wonder about the carver?
And what of the photographs
the music collection and books?
I will die
and the objects will live
in another time
another world
another story
Maybe your story
Alaska Day 2024
Two days ago
all was burnished oranges
golden yellows
and cranberry reds
sunshine, blue sky, cashmere sweaters
Today
all is white
white sky
white earth
even the branches of the cottonwood trees
that had yet to lose their leaves are heavy with white
When will the snow reach its end?
I sit and stare out the window
and knit
colors of spring
and autumn
September 15 2024
Ransom
To be no more
To not exist
To return
to the earth
and sea and sky
This is the story death tells us
And we are death
and other deaths
mothers, fathers
sisters, brothers
friends, neighbors
strangers, lovers
and all the lives
past and present
that touched our existence
from books and films
and voices on the radio
from plays and concerts
and hikes in the woods
One life is made
of so many other lives
and events
and mornings
sitting on the porch
watching the yellow leaves of September
dance with the wind
and return
once again
to earth
June 30 2024
A heron flew across the sky
its legs pointed south
its neck and beak seeking north
No one else noticed
the flight of the heron
too busy eating, dancing, talking, scrolling on their phones
I didn’t feel the need
to say “Look up”
June 26 2024
In the dream
I am in a dark forest
I see a black snake
coiled like an abandoned tire next to a beautiful leafy tree
30 feet from where I am standing
but I do not see the one
next to me
and I scream and wake up
June 24 2024
Missing Maggie
I miss our pajama days,
watching British mysteries
and knitting
I miss ice skating on the lake
and watching you make a big pot of vegetable coconut curry soup
I miss you
washing my hair
and massaging my scalp
I miss talking books
and listening to your songs
I miss your curiosity
your irreverence
your uninhibited conversation
and your love of strays
two-leggers and four-leggers
I miss your vintage finds
and upcycling of cashmere
the lime green you painted the door to your salon
I miss your fearlessness
your restlessness
your ability to make friends everywhere you are
I miss your life
It seemed there was nothing you couldn’t do
Except heal the pain
the injury to your brain
and the insanity of a broken world
June 15 2024
The robin songs have gone silent
the telephone sounds of the thrush
have stopped calling
The morning music of May and early June
has ended
once again
Once again
I am left wondering
Will there be another spring?
another summer?
more mornings
sitting on my porch
listening to the birds
watching the clouds
enjoying a cup of Assam tea?
June 7 2024
I saw the shadow
but not the bird
felt the wings
stir the air
Raven? Crow?
Stellar jay? Hawk?
Only robin songs
singing in the trees
and juncos returning for their morning feed
Feb 3 2024
Inspired by Marge Piercy’s “What Remains”
Now you want to be roses
or a cat
or a bird
that visits
the little house
in the big woods
and remembers
the food you shared
the hawk you saved
after its collision with the window
Now you want to be lupin
that grow wild
in blues and purples
and corals and pinks
above and below tree line
forever a flower and a seed
and beautiful
Now what remains
is the ghost in the poem
written and spoken
and languaged
Jan 22 2024
Failing to question
I know nothing of my birth
but its month, its day, its year
1958
I know the time
the place
the weight recorded
I know nothing of my mother’s labor
the drugs that managed her pain
Was she conscious or placed in the “twilight sleep” ?
Was my father in attendance?
Did she tear?
Did she breastfeed?
Did my grandmothers help?
Why do I know nothing?
I know the intimate details of others—
The pain, the 23 stitches, the midwife arriving too late,
The resolve not a make a sound,
not to scream “I don’t want to die” like the woman down the hall
The blood, the blood, the blood
the sore nipples, the aching vaginas, the leaks of urine
the scar tissue and pain with sex
Flesh and blood
Blood and flesh
and stories
told, untold
held, forgotten
unwritten, unpublished
Unloved
Around tables of card games
and burning cigarettes,
did she tell her story?
At 22, a miscarriage
At 42, the D&C
a euphemism for abortion
These facts she told me
But not their meaning
I failed to question
Jan 4, 2024
even when I pull the blankets over my head
put aside my book and turn off the light
I think of the morning
the cup of Assam tea
the perfect egg
on the perfect piece of toast
the juncos at the bird feeder
the light slipping into the darkness
the mysterious black cat with white paws
appearing and disappearing
and making me smile
Dec 16, 2023
White, white, snow quiet
Light receding, darkness still
warm winter blankets
Dec 11, 2023
She said: “Everything goes extinct.”
He made a gift of his body
to Science
this old, thin, white-haired man
The students did not know
the time or cause of death
They did not know his name
or his history
He lay before them
Naked
I will not give my body to science
she resolved
I will not give my body
to be cut and examined
to repeat an act of Michaelangelo
in the tombs of the Vatican
What is the body
without breath
without a heart that beats
without a brain that functions
without eyes and ears and nose and mouth
seeing, listening, smelling, tasting?
The Earth needs death
cries for decay, decomposition, putrefaction
and Sun
to re-seed, restore, re-materialize, reimagine
It is our After Life
the Earth
dependent on a moon and sun
that will one day
Die
and begin again
Nov 24, 2023
I am historical fiction
body of the past
books I loved
out of print
singers I loved
remembered, it seems, by only those my age
movies that entertained me
dancers that entranced me
performances that brought me to tears
interviews at the Herbst Theatre that made me laugh
Fran Lebowitz, Molly Ivens, Tom Robbins
written in my imagination
remembered
savored
and still
serendipity and discovery
of long ago writers and books I’d never known
music recaptured, made new
movies restored
dances reclaimed
interviews rebroadcast
the fluidity of life
the past, present and future
forgotten
lived
imagined
remembered
in time
Nov 13, 2023
In 1972, when I was a freshman in high school, sitting in Mr. Hunton’s General Science class, he said: If you can figure out how to put everything in the Library of Congress on the head of a pin, you will never have to work a day in your life.
I didn’t even know how to imagine what he was talking about.
And he never explained.
Oct 26, 2023
Seven Years Later
I wake before sunrise
to watch the stars disappear
I plug in the electric kettle
(my favorite appliance)
and wait for the water to boil
I stand before my shelves of teas
Kensington, Mincing Lane, Golden tip Assam
White Pomegranate, Gunpowder, Jasmine
Blackberry Sage
What tea will begin my day?
How many stellar jays will clamor for food at the bird feeder?
Will the white-crowned sparrow return
or has she continued south to her wintering place?
Will a friend call to chat
to remind us that we are still alive?
My beloved friend is seven years gone.
I know the stars are always watching
always waiting
always promising
a light in the darkness
a remembrance of all
who wake before sunrise
to love the stars
Oct 18, 2023
Inspired by Marie Howe’s “Practicing”
Always the younger
the wide-eyed
the uninitiated
What were these games they were playing?
Doctor, Kiss Kiss
Truth or Dare, Spin the Bottle
Where did they learn these games?
We did not play them at recess
not kickball
not tag
not hide and seek
not hopscotch
not four-square
not double-dutch jump rope
These were secret games
hidden from adults
behind closed doors
when parents were not looking
Oct 16, 2023
To Melissa LaHommedieu
the thing is
the shame never leaves
it never leaves
it comes flying back
on wings of someone else’s story
someone else’s shame
it’s not my shame
or her shame
or his shame
we were children
WE WERE CHILDREN
Innocent
Unmarked
Betrayed
by Adults
broken adults
adults with secrets adults
adults with all the power adults
to love and hurt
and nurture and neglect
and shame
Oct 3, 2023
She became an anglophile early.
It was all the Masterpiece period dramas
and Mysteries on PBS.
Sept 5, 2023 Thinking about my paternal grandmother’s mother who died at age 40
Sometimes I wonder
If women didn’t die young
to escape husbands
June 22, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Notes toward a Poem that can never be written”
This is the place
you would rather not know about
the darkness, the ugliness
the brutality and tears
The years upon years
of trauma, historical and present
and future
Slavery, oppression
Silence, servitude
Arrogance, power
Megalomania
And so much greed
And so much anger
And so much injustice
The lost weight of sentences
subject verb object
The lost voices of stories
The genocides
The naturecides
Everything beneath our feet
the bones, the blood
the stones of abandonment
We walk, we pray, we hope
and some escape
To live and witness
And bear their truth
June 18, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Five Poems for Grandmothers”
The stairs
became too much
Simple tasks
too much
Chicken dinners on Sundays after Church
too much
She lived with her youngest daughter’s family
three girls and a “Go Big Red” son-in-law
Until
it was too much
and she was placed in a facility
Where she
No one told me she died
No one told me about her youth
All I have is an image of her,
of her on her 98th birthday
in that sad, soul crushing place
sitting in a wheelchair
holding her tenth great grandchild
No longer able to speak
with tears running down her face
June 11, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “All Bread”
When I think of bread
I think of Elie Wiesel and his father
in the crowded cattle car
on their journey to Auschwitz
witnessing a father kill his son
for a piece of stale bread thrown into the insanity
by cruel, sadistic men
who laughed
and the people
who did not fight,
who did not choose
to eat
June 10, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “The Woman Makes Peace with her Faulty Heart”
Our hearts
beat
in time
in rhythm
slow while resting
faster when doing
capricious early
measured late
Our hearts
made hidden
trapped, secured,
connected to all that is vital
sometimes seen
more often unseen
the blood and the bleeding
There is always walking
and birds flying
and trees whispering
and books begging
poems waiting
and flowers in bloom
the scent of lilacs
and roses
the aroma
of rosemary and mint
We weigh, our hearts
In time
pleasure, pain
joy, sorrow
dirty dishes, leaky faucets
broken steps
A pause
A forgotten rhythm
There is no more walking
no more wanting
the cadence ends
the beat, beat, beat
stops
and we, our hearts,
are disconnected
June 7, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Landcrab I”
Is it a lie
that we are sea born?
Is our truth
found in dragons and stone?
Our shells are soft
Our claws are fingered
Our make-up
65% water
Our lives are connected
Moon, tides,
sand, dances
Mating
A long lost mirror
A forgotten secret
May 8, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “A Red Shirt” (For Ruth)
Red is not pink or blue
Red is roses, poinsettias
geraniums and maple leaves in the fall
Red is a baby’s first cry
A mother’s blood
A woman’s sacrifice
A poet’s cry
that sometimes
will kill you
May 3, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Precognition”
Would that I could go back in time
Guide you away
from your neighbor’s grandfather
the bully that left a scar
the day in early June you skipped school with friends
to escape the heat and the classrooms
to go to the river and smoke pot
wade in the cooling waters
listen to Earth, Wind and Fire
feel the silt squish between your toes
Your last day
Your last act
Would that I could stop the Jeep
from rolling over and over and over
You, the only one, who did not escape
The driver, the accidental killer
The back seat passengers, injured and damaged
Never fully recovered
Would that I could go back
and beg, plead, hold up a mirror, make a sacrifice
and stop the inevitable suffering
and your mother’s drinking-herself-to-death mourning
April 24, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Torture”
The conversation stops
shifts direction
at the mention of
Larry Nassar and Jeffry Epstein
Harvey Weistein and the men who molested you
The conversation stops
when you speak of rape
the violation, the humiliation
the fear
You are ordinary
A woman who goes about her life
home, work
breakfast, lunch, dinner
laundry, cooking, cleaning
You are a woman who likes to go for walks
but never in darkness
You often think about power
about those who torture, who traumatize,
who silence
and the poets, women like Margaret, who rage against it
and continue to walk, continue to march
even in darkness
April 22, 2023 Stellar Jay Mornings
In the morning
the stellar jays
knock on my window
Are they saying “Good morning”
or are they nudging me
to steal myself from
the warmth of my blankets
from the allure of the writer
beckoning me
to read
one more sentence
one more paragraph
one more page and chapter
And where do they hide
where do they fly to
when they are not chatting
“Time to get up. Time to give us peanuts.”
I know there are others in the neighborhood
who bend to their calls
I am not the only peanut giver
I am not the only one
who wonders at their guile
April 13, 2023 Re-creation to “A Woman’s Issue”
She asks
“Who invented the word love?”
and chastity belts
and female genital mutilation
and foot binding
and bed burning
and high heeled shoes
and girdles
and burkas and chadors
She does not ask
about the before time
before the signs and symbols of things made and unmade
experienced and unexperienced
before Eve and the serpent
God and the Virgin Mary
before Zeus created Athena, from his head
She knows the answer
She is female
She is
mother, daughter, aunt, grandmother, helpmate,
Poet
And she is asking you
“Who invented the word love?”
April 12, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Postcard”
Her postcards arrive faithfully
Her tight, tiny script
tell me of the places she visits
the house of Anne Hathaway
the pueblos of the American Southwest
the temples at Angkor Wat
Piccadilly Circus
Stills
curated and framed
Visiting is not living
is not breathing
the day to day
the flotsam and jetsam, the detritus and sweat
Visiting is photographs
stolen and ordered
Her postcards do not “wish you were here”
Her postcards are her travelogue
her proof, her belief
Of a life well lived
April 10, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “A Paper Bag”
You made of a paper bag
a mask
that hid your face
your smile, your nose and ears
It erased the familial
the past and patterns
that distinguished–You
it erased your skin, your eyes and chin
to reveal another you
an unknown you
empty, wordless, purblind
A story yet to unfold
A story yet to be told
Haiku
Earth sky rain sun moon
Greed is incendiary
People broken stars
April 4, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Nothing”
Does love
put blood
back in language?
Does love
change its beat,
its rhythm,
its soul?
What touches you
is what you touch
the surf pouring over your skin
the sand sticking to your feet
the salt drying on your lips
the poem that is not “nothing”
if not for love
April 3, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Eurydice”
In her bedroom
the white curtain breathes
A breeze, a whisper
seeks the open window
Come back
they beg
You have been too long gone from the noise and flesh of surface
The chatter grates
The insistence smothers
All light is not always light
All singing is not always song
There is freedom
in this silence
in this bedroom
with the open window
and the whispering breeze
April 2, 2023 Re-creation of Margaret Atwood’s “Vultures”
In nature
I have not seen a vulture
circling in flight above the remnants of carrion
Or watched the picking of flesh from bone
In movies
they do not possess the beauty of eagles
or the song of their cries
In the Himalayas, I have read,
A vulture’s role is sacred
they transport the dead, the flesh
the sin and sinless
and make a prayer
a circle that is ever life and death
April 1, Re-creation of Margaret Atwood’s “You Begin”
This is your hand
The hand that made
paintings and tiles
sketches and lithographs
etchings and collages
and sculptures in acrylic
Acrylic that yellowed, that aged
that ended in landfill
This is your hand
the hand that held mine
for a moment
that helped me
connect and disconnect
love and unlove
art and artists, and you
This is your hand
that is no longer young
as I am no longer young
no longer student, no longer enchanted, no longer little prince fox
This is your hand
once touched by mine
March 31, Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “A Boat”
I learn to steer
through darkness without stars
with memory
and scents of
emerging skunk cabbage
flowering clover
dying highbush cranberry
with familiarity
and mornings that taste of
Assam tea
a poached egg on toast
a slice of cantaloup
with knowing
the denseness of clouds
that hides the mountains
is mercurial
and will, in time,
Bow to the sun
that will bow to the darkness
but a darkness I know
and you know
is not always
without stars
March 30, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “She”
Coiled
Silent
the sun is hot
the earth that hides
its skin is hot
I do not wonder
whether it is he or she
I only hope
that its rattle stays quiet
that I may pass
Upright and unconsidered
March 29, 2023 Re-creation to “The Woman Who Could Not Live with her Faulty Heart” by Margaret Atwood
My heart is not still
I want I don’t want
I can feel the pulse
the beat
my fingers on my wrist, my neck
Ba boom, ba boom, ba boom
I want I don’t want
I want I don’t want
Spring to come
Summer to end
Fall to hold off winter
Flowers to bloom
Faded blooms to die
Rain to fall
Snow to melt
I want
song and sky and stars
And heart, a heart
that wants and does not want
that beats and beats and beats
until the beat
and want and not want
forget its song
March 27, 2023 Re-creation to “Marsh, Hawk” by Margaret Atwood
We have lost the way in
The way of the marsh
the boggy soil
the hidden nests
the land and river colliding
the birds and beach grass calling
the earth is broken
the sky is weeping
and the marsh
the marsh that fed the heron
It is a golf course
March 26, 2023
I never thought about her being black
I only thought about her being beautiful
with a beautiful voice
and beautiful clothes
a beautiful smile
asking me
if I want to ride
in her beautiful balloon
March 5, 2023
The cold
so cold
my eyes tear
my nose leaks
and the sun refuses to warm my face
So cold
I am alone on the road
listening to the snow crunch
and my walking stick strike the ice
So cold
the blue sky and white mountains appear frozen
yet so alive
May 17, 2021
We cannot see
the child lost to suicide
the husband mean and alcoholic
the credit card debt crushing her soul
We cannot see this
while she shops for groceries
or scurries at work
or plays tennis with a friend
or stops to give directions to a stranger
We cannot see
the unseen
It hides in time and circumstance
And in the hearts who took the time to see
March 31, 2021
sometimes getting dressed
is too much to ask
the weather is wet
the snow is wild
and all i want to do is knit
October 29, 2016
All that day
I waited and waited and waited
for a phone call that never came
I was the last of her friends to know
In August we spoke
She asked “Would you ever consider moving back to the Bay Area?”
I thought the question odd
“At this moment, I can’t imagine leaving Alaska”
She did not call
but emailed
You must not be on Facebook
Bad news: I have pancreatic cancer
She promised to call on Saturday
But the call never came
“This is the day,” she told Chris
Her last day to swallow
63 in 2021
My face is falling
My face is falling
The wrinkles are everywhere
My lips are disappearing
while the hairs on my chin flourish
My neck I hide in turtlenecks and scarves
and my eyes, my once sparkling eyes, behind glasses
I look in the mirror and understand
Botox and face lifts and lip augmentation
But I’m not a mirror
And I’m not 21 or 36 or 42
My youth is still mine
But it has aged and matured
And loved and lost and laughed and let go
and quieted
My cat purrs when he sleeps on my lap
I read a book and watch a British mystery
I listen to Fresh Air and knit
I dance to Adele and sing with Doris Day
I have a long talk with a friend and play the ukulele
To live another day
To wake and walk another day
And my face is falling
and my hair is graying
and my waist is widening
and my breasts have lost their splendor
There is no mirror but life
its joys and sorrows
and one more day
One more day
Test it to Destruction
And now no one is left to tell me
the year you donated your kidney to your brother
the year the doctor removed your right breast
the year they took your uterus, your fertility, your youth
the year you gave your husband an ultimatum
Were you 30 or 40 or 50?
All water under the bridge you said at 85
“The only reliable way to find out about any relationship:
test it to destruction.”
Aging
I never thought my grandmother
was anything but beautiful
Her brilliant blue eyes
Her comforting, wobbly, wrinkled skin
Her smell like Coty face powder
Her thin, thin lips still brightened with color
The scars that were a breast, a kidney, a uterus
To my cousin she said: “She doesn’t know I’m old.”
When you’re 30, 89 is unknowable.
He was kind that way
You’ll find a pair of boots
cowboy and black
with red roses
In my closet
somewhere
the finest shoes I’ve worn
the most expensive I ever owned
Two-hundred twenty-five dollars in 1989
from a boutique on Burlingame Ave.
For nearly thirty years
they cooled my heels
re-soled, re-heeled and polished
I showed them off
Once I gave them to a girl of ten
Not a year gone and back they came
Her body and feet had grown too big
I missed not having them in my closet
They are my memories
and especially a memory of my father
Surprising me
by polishing my boots one visit
making them look new again
He was kind that way
Phone Calls
I lie to my mother—again
Must go
Meeting friends for brunch
Love you too
Did I lie to my mother again?
For Marilyn
Marilyn