If this is what is possible

This greening at the tips

This crocus open, irislike

And unexpected

 

I’ll welcome it

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I Read Job to Be Reminded

It is not God I should accuse
but us:

We were not there
when You laid the foundation
when You set the cornerstone.

We are flawed
with our cracked clay feet,
unfit for keeping.

Fallen.

I read Job to understand awe:

We had no voices, yet
or throats,
when the stars sang
and the angels cried out

to learn God answers
questions
with more questions.

Worship is how we kneel
and admit it was not us
that laid the foundations,

that it is angels that shout
not us. Our brass tongues
clang discord
instead of sounding joy.

We have never ordered the morning
or shown the sunrise its place.

That smith of mountains
and mammoths
has more patience for us
than we for Him–

how we lose that path
over and  over
in that hunt for things
we think we need.

We have not traveled
to the springs of the sea.

How we tear each other
to feed a need more heated
than blood, hungrier than empty stomachs.

We have not entered
the storehouses of the snow.

We are not gods
but we coin them, newly minted
from gold flecks
sifted from lead & hoarded
to pour into familiar molds.

Gods that cannot ask us
where we were
because they are made
and ask only
for what we can give easily.

We do not know the paths to lightning.

 I read Job to remember
we can be more

but stretch out our hands instead
to grasp this less.

 

I wrote this six years ago, in response to another NaPoWriMo prompt.  I am using it again as is, because I doubt I can top this one.

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the crust

I make bread
not the way
mom and grandma did,
kneading until knuckles were clean
of flour

but with my Kitchenaid
with a dough hook

funny how that smell
of bread, still warm
cut open
spread with butter
and honey

reminds me of them
no matter how I made it

and I smile and sigh
simultaneously
before my teeth
kiss the crust

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End of March, beginning of April

I am a hunter
of fiddleheads and spruce tips
for a spring salad

in this time of snow still melting
on the north side of the hill
and leaves not yet raked up
at the edges of my lawn

this is the time of running sap
of mud
of crocuses deciding
it is finally true spring
and not the slow striptease
of dying winter

I am a woman of all seasons
but the promise/false hope
of all this softening
this budding

holds me

**** the NaPoWriMo prompt for today is to tell a story over time, with digressions.  Well, all of my poetry does that.  Here’s a stream of consciousness that meanders.  Hopefully nothing dams it.

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29 years later

29 years after I bound up and silenced
that voice
in my head/in my heart
or wherever it is
we carry love and defend it
even when it hurts us,

that voice coming
from the same place baby chimps
listen to as they cling desperately
to mothers
who shock them
repeatedly,
likely instinct gone toxic
but still hold tight to the
cold, sterile frame
doling out formula drop by drop
because it is all they have
for sure.

29 years later I looked for you
and found you posing,
still bearded, now silver
and white
instead of the brown
that was too long for respectability
but long enough to tug while we kissed

29 years later I find you smiling,
with a wife and daughter
and realize you didn’t stop in 1990.

You went on with it, as did I,
with new loves, children, dogs, cats, and poetry
crowding out the hours.

We kept living.

I wonder, if somewhere in your mind
where those baby chimps thrive
you also cling to me sometimes,
29 years newer, thinner
and much less grounded

Or if, unlike me
you moved past our love?

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A charm against loneliness

I.  Ingredients

Local honey.
One apple, core
not quite removed,
like the space left empty
for brown sugar and raisins,
if we were baking,
which we are not.
One name, murmured
at night
just before dreaming.

II.  Method

Write the name
on a curl of paper.
Try not
to let your fingers shake
too much.

Place the paper
rolled over on itself

inside the apple

the way we leave space in our middles
for dreaming

fill the rest of the empty core
with honey

and wait for your emptiness to cure
to a perfect sweetness.

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March Hill

Its March and the sap started in February
so who knows when the maples will bud
in this cycle of freeze/false spring
we know so well here

but its March and we’ve all lived past
that high peak,
the one so many can’t climb every winter
and simply lie down mid ascent

but we have and soon
the peepers will shout joy
and crocuses will open their throats
to the thin sun of early April

and I will remember hope
past the crest of winter again
and still standing
to speak it

though I won’t call it dancing

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