Another poem on grief

Boy - O! I sure do wish I could write more when I'm feeling happy. I do feel happy often, but then I do other things. Knit, cook, dance, exercise, hike ... you know. I might even have to rename this blog. Surely the byline is wrong. I had no time to write last year while I taught. Anyway, let's think on that. Here's another lament to keep you honest.

When I sat down
to read the poems
I will teach next week,
sadness sat down, too,
and suddenly I had to write,
speak directly to Grief, my old friend.

I began a few words on this page,
but sounds formed under water are never clear.
Fog refracts, disperses light.

What happened to that string
I was holding on to?
I knit my way through the month of December,
but now, just a few blocks away
from the 2-year anniversary of her death,
to walk forward is to enter the desert,
where she is always beyond the dunes.

If I could leave her a note in the sand,
it would say
"Please,"
because I live with the regret
of not having asked her
to reconsider her life
just one more time,
for me.

But this tissue-paper wish
was as useless during her life
as it is in this poem.
The generational stream only flows in one direction.

When I asked my brother the other day
how he is doing, he replied:
"I try not to think about it."
At least I have this grief.

Prayer for Zyrae

It's been a long time since I've written anything here ... written anything, actually. Here is my latest foray into poetry, inspired by a struggling kindergartner I am tutoring. It is a draft, and, as usual, I would love feedback.

Prayer for Zyrae

Later in her life, Zyrae may not remember the particulars of the many afternoons we mingled, memorizing mumbled phonemes. She laughs now – loudly – when, laconically, her memory lapses and loses letters. Cute, but I am praying for a day when apples will beget clovers donning egrets fishing and gnus hovering impatiently over jasmine-kindled lakes, a day when memory does not neglect, but with onus, presides. This week, she is forgetting Q and R, skipping straight to the letter S, which she solders, in writing, to the number 5. Silly when she slips only because I believe in the day she will quaff novels and read recipes with quickness and regularity, and difficulty’s residue will be traceable only in the charming way she renders the word, “vowel," upside down "m" replaced with that finicky, sometimes-y. I am certain, also, that time will renegotiate this, and very soon, I think, C will be able to collect its identity so cats and kites won’t crash, but collaborate co-dependently only in carefree moments of déjà vous, and never in confusion. This will happen with luck. Right now, I can feel her brain working. Just yesterday she read the word “mat.” If she ever forgets me, I hope it is because her struggle to read is completely over.

Poplar

Poplar,
the name of a tree on a page.

Flutters,
all of autumn at the mention of swallows.

Teacher

Last night,
when I thought
the whole world
had gone to sleep,
the moon rose
and with her
yellow chalk
drew me a line
in the water.
I reached out
and took hold
of that rope,
held tight
as she gladly
towed me in.

Portage Bay

Why the Osprey?
A mother's nature is not to prey,
but three times in spring one circled
while I sat writing her name.

The January of her death, I dreamt
I stood in a yellow raincoat at the edge of our dock
where some commotion had been started
by a blue-green sylph.

I soared toward the house to tell Alfred to come and look
and found her, open-armed, beaming,
wearing a sparkling black evening gown.
"I see you," she said. "I always have."

This November,
the waterlilies are sunk, the grasses peeled back,
the water black, and the dark shapes
of the winter birds remain unidentified.

By some instinct of theirs,
I cannot get closer than forty feet before they fly --
how elusive they are!
But a week ago,

A hummingbird darted across my mood.
I was brooding over something,
and there she was again,
stopped right before me

fluttering her eternal wings.

Dabob Bay

"Well, what is your name going to be when you get married, Jen? You haven't told me," she says laughing.
"Gellhorn. We're both going to change our names to Gellhorn."
"Ok. And how do you spell that? G-E," she picks up a pen and begins to make a note.
"G-E-L-L-H-O-R-N." Still worried that she might not have it, she puts down her pen, takes off her glasses and looks me straight in the eye.
"Ok, not jellhorn." Emphasis on the "jell."
"No, Gellhorn."
"Ok, well I have to .. you know, I have to know where to find you. I have to know who to look for when ... I don't know. I have to know who you're going to be."
"Ya."
"And what did you say you're going to name your kids again? Ludy and Francis?" She begins to chuckle at me.
"No, mom. Not Ludy. There's only room for one Ludy in my life --"
"Right. Your imaginary friend, Ludy. Where did you ever get that name from?" She is cracking up now, rocking in her chair.
"I don't know. Maybe she was a friend in my last life. But seriously mom, listen. Stop laughing. We're going to name our first daughter Francis. It's a really pretty name. It is."
"Jenny," she can hardly believe me. "I can't believe it! I've always hated my middle name! I've always wanted to get rid of it, now you're going to give it to your first daughter? How many are you going to have, anyway?"
"So you want to know their names in order?"
"Yes. Tell me again."
"Ok. First Abe. I ..."
"Abe. Right." She is incredulous. "Jenny, what the hell kinda names are these?" She shakes her head at me and bites her lip, waiting for the worst of it to come.
"Just listen, ma, Abe, then Francis," she begins to count on her fingers, "then Clara, Ana and Eero."
"Eero! Jenny! What are you thinking? I'll never remember these names! I'll never find you!"

Alaska