August 8, 2016: A Story, However Unlikely

Tonight all I want is celebration

and my only dilemma

is where to start this ode:

perhaps Brahms or a waxing crescent,

but both are too common,

though in no way unimportant.

Availability is not a flaw,

for were it so, I would dismiss

both my flowers and the finches,

sins I could not be pardoned.

Tonight, though, I shall sing the rare,

a tale of two improbable people,

a contradiction in their geographies,

their meeting a pure accident

of a concert, a cathedral and a cat,

aided by an unwitting matchmaker.

making the miracle of Minnesota

joined to distant County Clare.

It became an encounter of light,

a glimmer of days they both saw,

which organized them not to wander,

but to firmly claim that ground

where some hope, hardly named,

persuaded them to go on

until they fell upon the joy

which might color two lives--

that wisely, they chose not to shun

Every Morning

Every morning I am glad to wake

to the light through the slats,

the gift of sun still there,

that great friend in the heavens

bringing warmth to the dawning.

It’s time to stand up and see,

to shake off the stiffness of night,

to lift my dog from the bed,

time to start coffee and go outside,

gather the paper and look at the mountains;

to welcome the grace of more hours

when perhaps nothing will happen,

though we might be blessed,

tumble into some new scent or flower,

find something that penetrates

to such a living depth inside

that we would never want to forget;

both of us happy and grateful

for another day on our planet.

Among My Peers

We are all one misstep

removed from disaster:

either by diagnosis or accident,

a fact we soberly accept

as the truth of our age.

Dreams from years long ago

have not come to pass,

whether private or public:

we are resigned to a present

imperfect and unpromising,

but find no reason to surrender,

no excuse not to hope.

We await each dawn,

happy to be alive,

to be full of thoughts

in these still lovely days

which color our moments,

to find the words we must say;

and to watch the children

who run, laughing through days,

who will people a future

which we may not see,

but already welcome

as if we were there.  

Recovery

There is so much to know,

and harder still, to remember,

that what might be called discovery

may be ill-gotten gains.

Some tune goes through your mind,

many notes but no title,

and then, as if by magic,

you know where to find it.

Some bird, entirely invisible,

sings in a nearby tree,

and you are mystified,

but suddenly, you know the name.

So many things have you forgotten

that everything is nearly new,

once again, almost as fresh

as the day you first knew,

and in the end it matters not:

It is a world of shadows,

but the joy of knowing

is never hidden for long.

Elegy for a Friend, Dying Too Soon

(In Memoriam: Sharon W., 1941-2012)

Sooner or later, you had to know,

so why not know?  Deferral

would be no kindness to you,

only a gift to others,

afraid to say the word,

and consumed by impotence;

while brave soul that you are,

you have no quarrel  

except with the indignities of dying;

and if you must depart,

why not now, in mid-autumn,

in the company of all nature,

following the leaves and the flowers

into some waiting winter,

peopled by yourself alone,

leaving us and our good intentions

waving from the banks

as you drift from view.

Summer

After seven long decades,

I finally know the summer.

It is purely a gift,

one I neither fathom nor assign:

the freedom to walk outside

without any further consideration.

The lettuce marches through its rows,

tomatoes hang from their vines

and the basil perches on its stalks.

The sun rises to a friendly angle,

and the windows are confidently open

so we can hear the song sparrow,

proclaiming for all the joy

we find again and again,

as life goes through the business

of asserting itself once more,

as if January never were.

The Words: a Suite in Three Movements

1

As surely as paint on canvas

or notes on a keyboard,

these words go on paper:

not exactly the blue skies or a sun,

much less than flowers in a field

or a river running south.

Still, if less than perfect,

not quite equal to this beauty,

words are what we heard or saw;

and so, as fully realized

as what they aimed to describe,

what they wanted to praise;

how this will be remembered

by you and me and those to come.

2

Surrounded by the people I love,

by the clouds and the trees,

all these treasures of each day,

there is still the quiet of the night,

the solitude I share

with pencil and paper;

the happiness of watching

the words begin to arrive

to put all this in its proper place;

to hope for the right colors,

the exact sound of voices,

  in all their shapes and forms;

for in the end, accuracy

is the beginning of gratitude.

3

Flaubert talked of entire days

devoted to the question

of placing a comma,

and why would he not?

The challenge in all this

is to be understood,

to witness an afternoon,

to locate its falling light

on an intelligible canvas:

to paint it for a reader,

and say, here I was,

and so will you be as well--

but only if I have found the way

that brings us to the same words.