I did not want to kiss her
did not want to make out.

I considered saying: I just want to be closer
than we have been
I just want to graze the surface, lightly
I do not want to kiss you

I do not want to go that way
and then have to hitch to the rails
of well worn routes

I hover in her space
for however long, to say:
it's okay
here
is another way to look at this thing

the orange kitty in the leaves
was not there just a short time ago
but those leaves knew he would come, the minute they were
but young green things
they could feel his love building
and all that he would go through
finally
to find his way home

and now it is as it is
and always would be
the spirit takes so many forms
how lucky we are that one
is orange and looks
with such deep eyes
and loves with little
reservation
and dares to claim, with a full heart:
you are mine

Then the moment came
it was time for her to go.

We lingered near each other, outside
feeling the warmth from a fire
that wasn't quite present anymore
but wasn't really gone

I kissed her, softly
a surprise
which should have been startling but
really was simple
and taken as such
she looked at me and said
maybe you will find a wind
that will take you away from all of this

I leaned in and whispered
there are people and places
that I do not yet want to leave-
but it was time for her to go
and so she did.

I went back inside
and looked around
and thought about a house, a home
what it means
and I saw my grandmother in my mind
smiling, and full of beans
and happy to play her part for me
watching in joy as time rolled on
and left her there, in the story that
has no end

she said: do you want me to do your corn for you?
Meaning, give me my due, make up my serving
make me part of the supper of life...

I ran back, quickly, outside
to see if Kate was still there
though she would not be

I wanted her to be the one
that would do my corn for me
be with me, in the small moments when we make tea
and dish up the evening meal
a small small kiss
endlessly important, that
comes and goes
and choose to stave off,
at least for now
the calling of the wind
that will take all this away

screaming cat call
in the deep
of night
I lay quite still, there,
hoping to keep a good feeling
and watched with 
resignation
as it slipped away.
now I am awake
my friend has snuck through
my room
and hurried on
her smell lingers but
she had to fly
her brother worried
in the car.
crickets meditate 
at the top of their lungs
and far away
I wonder how the oldest child
fares this night-
all we share in the end
is sleep

she fought it out
despite shame and fear
and near the end
lost sight of her own face
as it stared back in sorrow
up from the very deep well

the body deteriorates before we get out
the only way is through-
put that in a poem, ******
she said
and so I did.

Hollow as a reed
the moving Breath plays a song
who's hands are these that do The Work?
Who's eye's are these that see with love?
Who's heart is the heart of every living thing
and breaks, with little hesitation
with each pounding wave

step into it and
step aside
it is the only way it can work
otherwise we walk the tracks, head down
and we do not see the train, no,
nor where this road might take us
the soft deer trail that leads away

they taped the mittens to her hands
she would tear the IV from her body
they wrapped her up in swaddling clothes
as in the beginning  so in the end
she had forgotten to look up, so
very long ago
made a habit of grasping all
that could not be owned
and in the end it fled away

the body deteriorates before we get out
the only way is through-
put that in a poem,
******

in the blink of an eye
I am standing in my child body
holding my lunch sack in my hand

there is no sandwich or apple
there is no note from my mom
it is full of the very small hope that I have managed to keep
and a doorway to endless desire
that leaves me breathless, for family and home
for sunshine and days with no pain

I stand in the rain of a dark early morning
at the corner, waiting for the bus
that never comes.

it just might be that as we fly
through this life we leave a contrail
of dazzling light, color and refraction
certainly smell, I know that for sure
and memory triggers for others to find out on their routes
like sniffing posts for bygone dogs:
an angel has passed this way, and wow
what a beauty it was by all apparent scents-
photographs….

take all this, the collected essence
of the passing of beings beyond description and sink it into
bits of paper, and cover them with years and nuance
take away the human minds that knew these people-
where they came from, what games they played, how they cried
when teased or jollied and how they smiled when you loved them clearly-
leave it all in a box, and put it out in the middle of my so called
living room, and there I am, sitting, witness to all
of this that has passed away beneath the bridge, like Pooh-sticks in a dream.

When we see that this is truth, it should sink into the earth
down beyond the deepest vision, birthing black holes, new suns above,
dripping fish and spawning babies; dancing apples; peaches; pears;
cloudy mornings just after the rain but really
it weighs little in this world’s terms, just another of the many things
that make no sense, when you pause, mid step and give it wonder.
there are more moments here, it seems to me, than all the stars I see at night,
how can that be? how is this given?
only my eyes, only mine, the gateway and the telling mouth
through which these memories find their focus,
bring the people and animals, divine, back into this life again;
they stand about me, smiling.

and then it comes, as in the past, when I ask aloud to no one there
who will see these stories moving, when I have gone outside to play and failed to come home in time for supper and never made
it to bed that night? is that the point? does it even matter?
it is only small mind that dares to think that the present
can or is defined by that which we hold in our hands
bits of paper, a passing smell, and the habit of
carrying it all in a box, the charred remains
of the one true cross

give yourself this, they say to me, give yourself this
small piece of pie; cherish the bite that you have bitten
it’s part and parcel of who we are
don’t deny the being you wear, tooled and scarred
like well rubbed leather, the passing of time is part of the charm
being human brings with it a grace, to love the ones we fail to see
but we are never without their presence; they exist in full outside this box.

I pick my playmates for the day, some to scan and some to share
some to look at deep in feeling, see their eyes now fill the room-
the rest will wait, with their agreement, contain their light to
one small spot
as if this was the summation of all they are
but in their kindness they wish for me to know that
they are always here and I am welcome to
walk among their paths, when the wind is cold
and my heart needs the comfort of
things gone by-