To myself

I am
laughter
on a good day,
kind and thoughtful.
I read obituaries--
my heart fills with
sorrow and pride
for lives lived.
It's as good as any of us can do
sometimes
to get through the days.
But when it's over all lives
could be great movies
because they have joy and pain,
dreams and hopes,
success and failure.
These souls saw colors of sunsets,
so many colors who could
pick a favorite?
Fire flies, stars shooting, a rainbow.
Little wonders.
Hear the prairie thunder--
it could be July or August against Orion's
midnight sky of black.
Some painted in watercolors or
told great stories around crackling campfires
by any lake anywhere.
Have you ever felt wind
so strong
it takes your breath?
Courage, honor
tradgedy, failure.
Walt fought in the war.
Georgia was a poet.
Ralph lost his sunglasses
in an outhouse
then tried to fish them out
with a daredevil.
Laura loved me.
Delores danced.
Odie gambled.
Who would have known?
These wild lives
fill me
with a crooked smile
that says you lived, all of you lived
and I will too.
On a good day,
I do more
than dream.

Word dancing with my daughter

I remember the day she was born. I cried, and said, "She's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen." My mom wiped tears away and softly agreed. "I know."

It was a wondrous Friday in September.

Now here we are, twelve years later, sitting on the couch in our living room. It's past 10 but before 11. We're lost somewhere in between, reading poetry by Mary Oliver. We wander through her prayerful love of nature and her attentiveness to life. We like Sleeping in the Forest, The Sunflowers, and Sunrise. We read several more, taking turns. As she talks, I close my eyes. She skates across the words as if on clean ice. Her voice is strong, intelligent, and thoughtful. She is all things and more.

We come to First Snow. I'm reading now, quietly so we don't wake anyone.

"The snow/ began here/ this morning and all day/ continued, its white/ rhetoric everywhere/ calling us back to why, how,/ whence such beauty and what/ the meaning; such/ an oracular fever! flowing/ past windows, an energy it seemed/ would never ebb, never settle/ less than lovely! and only now,/ deep into night,/ it has finally ended./ The silence/ is immense,/ and the heavens still hold/ a million candles; nowhere/ the familiar things:/ stars, the moon,/ the darkness we expect/ and nightly turn from. Trees/ glitter like castles/ of ribbons, the broad fields/ smolder with light, a passing/ creekbed lies/ heaped with shining hills;/ and though the questions/ that have assailed us all day/ remain--not a single/ answer has been found--/walking out now/ into the silence and the light/ under the trees,/ and through the fields,/ feels like one.

I get to the end and we begin to ask questions. We start to pull apart the poem with care and gentleness. There is joy in defining the subtle flavors of words and rhythms.

"Oracular," we wonder? Divinely inspired, ambiguous, reads dictionary.com.

A million candles. Beautiful. Micaela says, "Maybe she means the stars." I'm startled by the ease of her answer. Is she 12, or 21? By reading on, we think it's something else.

Maybe she's talking about glittering snowflakes aloft in the heavens of the night. Knowing, not knowing, thinking and sharing is delicious.

We go on. "Trees glitter like castles of ribbons..."that's good," we both say.

And the broad fields smolder--I love it. "What does smolder mean," asks Micaela. "It's like when you pour water over a fire and the smoke and steam overtake everything near," I say, using my hands to show the magnitude. "Oh, yeah," she says. "She's really good."

There's more.

"Questions that have assailed us all day/remain--not a single/answer has been found--"/

The word "assail" springs like an arrow from a bow. It seems the awe of nature has invaded Oliver's soul, yet show knows no answer for her feeling.

Then the poem takes a dramatic turn and ends gently, like a big feather-filled snowflake falling from the sky onto one of its own.

walking out now/into the silence and the light/under the trees,/and through the fields,/feels like one.

There is an answer.

We hustle back to the beginning.

We feel the strength in words the poem begins with--white rhetoric, oracular fever, an energy it seemed would never ebb. Then she dips her brush to change the color of the language--the silence is immense, trees glitter, broad fields smolder, and heaped with shining hills paint vivid pictures in our minds and hearts.

Then the exquisite transition before she ties it back to the beginning--the bold questions of why, how, whence such beauty and what the meaning.

And the haunting--not a single answer has been found--

But then she steps outside the walls of her home and heart, where nature's beauty holds her captive. "walking out now into the silence and the light under the trees and through the fields, feels like one."

We go back to the beginning at least three times more and start again until our thirst is satisfied.

As we say goodnight, I think to myself, "She is a beautiful young woman." I hear my mom whisper, "The most beautiful."

A prayer to light

All the weight to hold, I hold unto me.
Heart heaved
against wind and will
shadows cast crookedly
against my soul.

Staggered, drunk, dizzy
midnight covers dawn
there seems no light to see.

Lifted by grace
hope soflty shines
and this weight let go
is no longer me.