I think the secret to a long life
Is to be in love with every thing.
It’s easy, honestly, to love greatly and truly.
It’s the easiest thing.
You should try it,
Just try it.
Breathe and the air is sweeter
Open your eyes
There is so much to pine for.
Being in love is noble work
And we need you, the lovers.
We need you more than ever.

Tonight
Again
I battle myself
As Vince Guaraldi twinkles low on the smart speaker
And the baby sleeps
And the tree in the corner absorbs water into its severed spine
And the lights shine merrily
And the dog kicks and snores
And the dishwasher sloshes
And the wind chimes sing
And the clock ticks
And the wine bottle drains
And drains
And drains
And tomorrow looms,
Always so distant,
Always so near.

This time of year,
When trees go bare
And snow covers our ground,
I come down
With a seasonal disease...
Weeks prior to Christmas Eve.

The onset is a distant twinkle
Shimmering in the deep;
That gives me such a nuanced twitch...
I itch to hang a wreath.

And when I sneeze,
I'm joyfully pleased
To shop for such and stuff.
I horde it in a secret place,
Then worry I've not enough.

When my muscles get tired and weak,
My back gets bent and sore,
When my body starts to sweat...
I await the seasonal cure.

I'll run a fever, hullucinate,
Take to my bed and wait.
Don't present me meds,
Don't ring me up a nurse,
I'll protest and rave.
This winter ailment,
This gifting curse,
My present proclivity,
Will only break
Come Christmas morn.
Oh Come, Oh Come Nativity.

My son does not understand why it is darker now
“But mom, three days ago at this time there was still sun!”

And I explain how, in our part of the world, we change our clocks for the benefit of using the most of our daylight

I do not tell him it is because we are slaves to time in the worst of ways

We spend mornings enjoying the sunrise together, and I count myself lucky that this time shift occurs

I do not tell him how I wish I could make it stop all together

“So is it 8? I’m staying up late?!”

I don’t bother to fight him, it’s the seventh times he’s asked the question, and I tousle his hair instead

Big brown eyes mischievously twinkle as he reaches for a hug, and jams his little fingers in my armpit painfully

“Tickle!!!” He shouts, rolling toward me and giggling.

I do not tell him that I would give all my hours to live in these moments with him

I’ve mined for gold
But I’m getting old,
Too many holes.
Searching for souls
Has taken its toll
An empty bowl
For a mink stole.

I come to you again.
Always do.
And sure as eggs,
You’re always here,
Right where I left you.

I bring you the mundanities that weave me together;
I hope they’re beautiful in their ordinariness.

Pointillist.

You know that painting,
The one of the people in the park?
Like that, my mundanities.
Like if I step back one day,
My moments will be arranged into a perfect pattern of great and universal significance.

Having a daughter.
Tasting an orange.
Holding.
Being held.

Writing a little heart song when I should be asleep
The words of my whims dotting the landscape
While the dog smiles and snores at the foot of the bed.

Oh, look, I’ll say.

I see it now.

We keep good records.
Starting dates, endings.
Wars, plagues, starvations.
Emigratiions. Genocides.
Religious and cultural shifts
Continue in sustainable growth.

Not unlike my Magnolia,
Some of whose roots got burned
From excessive fertilizer.
The foliage suffered, not the trunk.
This year there are fewer buds.

Not unlike my grandkids
Holding up our mythology to reason,
Our White Lies.
Our magical lights, speeds of travel
That take us from our immortal Earth,
I snap back,
And slip a dollar under a child's pillow.
This will sustain.

I miss her
And all the things she didn't know
And the mountains
Covered in the snow
I miss the way she stood
I miss the way she danced
How she could loose herself
Easily in a trance
I miss the way she cried
On the floor at night
Waiting for them to tell her
Being broken was alright
I miss her kaleidoscope hair
A secret screamed out loud
Something she was ashamed of
While saying she was proud
I miss the shy smiles
Hidden behind books
And the ones he gave back
When she caught his look
I miss her
And all the things she didn't know
And the mountains
Covered in the snow

I am 4.
14.
24.
38.

I am 38 and you’re making me scrambled eggs.

You got the call and you’re making me scrambled eggs.

It’s the night before the morning of your transplant.

Old women sing of their mothers.
And I know I will always miss you when you’re gone.

But not today.
Not today.

I’m sorry, I say.
And you say, no. I’m your mama.

I’ll always be here to make you scrambled eggs.

I am 38.
24.
14.
4.

And we’re at the kitchen table. You’re so tired and I’m so little and it’s so late.

I’m sorry, I say.

And you say, no. I’m your mama.

I’ll always be here to make you scrambled eggs.

That sun is deceiving.
Faux fluorescence, fickle morning light.
In my eyes
so bright,
on my skin
cold as night.

Conniving contrivance of combustion,
yellow liar in the sky
feeding my hopeful mind
full of summertime delight.

Don't step outside,
lest you find
that sun is deceiving.
False light,
bitterly white,
dancing in the
azure heights.

I need permission
To break through this invisible forcefield,
To give you a hug,
And make it not ******.
Yet...
We both know
It not to be true.

Lou left!

It was an unexpected cataclysm;
A rogue wave in my face;
A flapping jib in the lightning;
A broken string
As I began Yesterday.

Today, I read his life's history,
His likes and loves.
I will replace that string,
And finish the song.
Before I forget,
Before too long;
For I was his mate
In many a storm.