Samantha’s Daily Poem
The wonderful things
She was in her eighties when I met her
long grey hair in a bun
sprigs of lavender tucked behind each ear
she said it was good for her memory
made her remember
the sweet moments.
She made pots of tea for us children
chipped little cups of boiled mint and honey
read the leaves at the bottom of each one
with great seriousness
divining the adventures we would go on
love stories and elephant rides.
She never worked
waited for her husband every evening
he was the night-shift bookkeeper
he rode his bicycle home
in a suit and tie
the children long since fed and tucked in bed
she fed him dinner
and sat across from him
with her knitting
while he ate
and asked about his day
the same way every time
tell me the wonderful things.
Many years later
after they had both died
I learned they were hidden
two young Jews
the delicacy of new love
grew in the cracks of the savagery.
She made him promise her
if the world was returned to kindness
that he would save every tendril
of joy from every stolen day
and bring it home for her.
She seemed so magical to me
I never knew
how close the darkness
danced and how fervently
she worked
to be reminded
of light.
The forest
The forest is reckless
with its juices,
so wet the rain rises,
seeping upward
from the swampy earth.
A carpet of insects cusses,
darting and burrowing
beneath our footsteps.
An eagle loops the sky
tracing letters with her wings
writing her own poem.
Everything is dripping green
growing like it is a race,
the moss wins
wrapping the trees in hair:
a sea of old bearded gentlemen
standing around
ruing how fast
things change.
In the long shadow of lists
You have my permission
to remind me
to be brave,
to hold me
accountable
to my dreams
that go missing
in the long shadow
of lists.
Silent and perfect
A baby robin clutches
the side of his nest
but thinks better
of leaping.
His mother berates him
a constant squawk
from her stage on the big cedar bough.
I peek in
he has fallen
asleep, impervious to her call
for obedience.
Three days in a row of this
spectacle of nerves
and the next day
she didn’t return.
At dusk
that grey mute hour
he climbed onto the ledge
of his woven brambled home
and flew
silent and perfect
into the cedar tree.
She will come back for him,
I thought.
The next morning I was getting firewood
from under the house
and there he lay
as though he was sleeping again
silent and perfect
but horribly
still,
his glossy black eyes
wet with fear.
I felt angry at his mother
for not understanding
he just needed more time
than his brothers,
for not coming back
though he must have waited all night
on the cedar bough
where her last words to him
were of disappointment.
And I felt angry
at the beast
who startled him
bullied him to the ground
and didn’t even take a bite
to make it feel orderly
to assure us that nature isn’t senseless
that only we push the weaker ones
for fun.
But mostly I was angry
at myself:
I was the one who saw him fly
for the first time
and I didn’t clap
or say a word.
He never knew
how proud
I was.
Hunting for gratitude
Spend your days hunting
for gratitude.
You will bow
to the big ones at first:
health
love
roof over your head.
Then one day
your world will splice
open into a thousand tiny experiences
that used to be knit together
into the density of life.
You taste them
holding each moment like a bird
in the cup of your palms
shocked
at how much joy
was out there
waiting.
