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

Our dock; The Broken Group Islands; Tofino; Ucluelet

This Pain

Tonight the sky heaves rain from the clouds. It is a good, healthy east coast rainstorm. Homesick, my heart copies the sky, and I cry for my mother.

Two poems, both by Mary Oliver, that I read like maps, for tonight I am so very far away.

A Pretty Song

From the complications of loving you
I think there is no end or return.
No answer, coming out of it.

Which is the only way to love, isn't it?
This isn't a playground, this is
earth, our heaven, for a while.

Therefore I have given precedence
to all my sudden, sullen, dark moods
that hold you in the center of my world.

And I say to my body: grow thinner still.
And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song.
And I say to my heart: rave on.

The Uses of Sorrow

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.