I tried to be, being,
oh so many things
to/for someone else
not myself.
And still, my heart sang.

I tried to break it, my heart,
to deny this truth,
my truth;
fill/feel myself full and overflowing with lies.
And still, my heart sang.

I tried to ignore it,
to stuff myself into
a narrow little box,
a stranger's life.
And still, my heart sang.

Still my heart sang.
Underneath all the pain,
rage, sorrow.
My heart sang, quietly,
my truth, my self.

My heart now sings
of love, of joy, of possibility.
Openly and truly now.
No fighting, no denying.
My heart now sings.

What happens when the certainties
are ripped from our hands,
and we stand,
clutching remnants, mere scraps,
winding them around our fingers?

As if to make permanent
that which was fleeting,
in spite of the prayers we uttered,
the sacrifices made, in hopes of
some gods propitiated--
so we thought.

The universe tilts,
all certainties end,
and we find ourselves in space,
clutching our remnants,
unsure of what agonies even
a single step, a toe forward,
can mean
when there was all meaning and now
none?

They say that
nature abhors a vacuum,
stillness not in our nature.
Restless, angry, grieving **** sapiens,
drifting across some landscape or other--
does it matter?--
when all around are signposts
back to what we lost?

Plod, plod, plod.
One foot in front of the other,
until we reach another place,
other scraps blowing against our feet;
we pick them up;
weave something else
weave ourselves
back into the fabric of
a place, a space,
our own selves

Standing at the car
under a fine drizzle
we traded children's things
back and forth.
Things momentarily housed, unhoused,
then rehoused again.  
A moment, only temporary, of stability.
Some of those last minutes,
some last lifetimes,
some last last fifteen years.

Back in the house,
I was momentarily homesick
for a place that no longer exists
except in photographs
and the living, breathing
bodies of our children
now sleeping in their beds.

It's time now.
Cut back the roses
down to earth.
Cut back the canes
that bore the flowers,
raising brave heads to the sun,
Now, gone to hips
or browned remains.
A fading tangle on scrawny stems.

Cut back the canes,
sturdy but yellowing now at the edges.
See the old scars of past
cuttings, notches in the plant.
The places where growth ended.

Yet, new canes grew anyway,
bursting below, above, around
the stumps and scars,
or pushed, slender,
new from the ground.

Pile the cuttings.
See the brown, the green,
the yellow.
Marvel at the pile of growth.
Look at the plants, now
small. stripped.

Ready for rest.
Waiting for spring.

Love someone who makes you think,
Love someone who makes you question your perspective.
Love someone who holds you after a nightmare.
Love someone who makes winter feel like spring.

Love someone who you can watch a fire with, and it feels like a light show.
Love someone who you can dance with (and it's not terrifying).
Love someone who you can see a future with.
Love someone who you can tell all your dark, deepest secrets to, and they don't throw you away for it.

Love someone who will be there when everything comes crashing down at once.
Love someone who will see you for who you are.
Love someone who will love you for it.
Love someone who will be patient with you and your broken parts.

Love someone who knows you and all your hearts' songs.
Love someone who knows what hurt looks like when it takes over your features.
Love someone who knows your sadness and your happiness.
Love someone who knows the difference between your smiles.

Love someone who sees how mangled you and your thoughts are.
Love someone who hears you when you say you're sorry. Really hears you.
Love someone who smells like a rainstorm.
Love someone who tastes like a warm fire when you kiss them.
Love someone who feels like you're finally home.

Today the fountain where
I sit and dip my feet
is half-shaded.
A month ago, the sun
baked, now
it warms.

I feel the creeping shadow
of autumn
the turn of the year
the descent into the dark.

A time to wait
to rest from blooming;
to let things germinate
beneath the earth.

I gather in my harvest
count the seeds,
store them up.

Cover over the fields.
And wait.

We can comfort ourselves
with platitudes; say
"Life is short."
"It can change at any time."
Then the shock of the water,
the pool on opening day,
that phone call, that look
hits us, and we know.
The bruises and the tender spots,
the winces and the tears
that will never quite fade;
the stains that sit until,
familiar, we wouldn't find our way
without them.

Our navigational systems

In the beginning,
the wisdom shared in full knowledge,
by those who sailed before us,
is the lies we tell ourselves
to get through the day,
to get through the next hour,
to get through that minute:
we all know it.

But then the lies become insight
become truth
become wisdom.
And we're passing on the coordinates
to the next mariner, sailing on
the seas of disaster.

Poor souls--
the maps we use we make ourselves.