When I sit here
and pat the universe
in my belly
and catch myself wanting
to be the queen bee
I pay homage
to all the other worker bees
like me,
the wisdom-tenders
in their many seats,
galaxies of wonder
unnoticed and connected.
This couch potato
in such a small sphere
does not need Oprah
for proclaiming wonder,
does not need proclamations
to feel the heat,
to know that life is here,
to feel the way we are cooking
even as it looks like nothing moves.
This voice sounding puzzled,
tasting old words
as if they have new flavours,
this is me
speaking as a poet;
transcribing real moments
into words
that hang together briefly.
They rise from ordinary things,
teakettles,
my gratitude for socks,
the toilet paper holder
loose on the wall
and needing attention
and when I pause to see,
the poem takes shape.
This is me also finding voice
as an innkeeper,
less practical
than my colleagues
but equally welcoming.
The innkeeper I rejected
as too small,
bound in too much tending.
The poet I rejected
for the opposite same,
a purposeless attention.
I have been a poet
since the first day
I discovered that words
could be cut
more easily than paper,
glued more easily
than the other crafts.
The core of my professing
is how this tending and welcoming
live here.
Is this the kind of mud
with no ripples,
the kind where a person
squats and gets stuck,
where the falling in
has no circles extending?
Happy in my own muck,
content to go no farther,
is this a wasted journey
or lotus rooting?
My gift
is not in fixing
but in stepping back
with paintbrush poised
or cordless drill
or flashlight
to say this is broken
and breathe
in the woundedness
and possibility
to find ways of lingering
but not overlong,
touched by what is here
and what may come to be
with a very fond farewell
to what might have been
and a smile
soft in welcome.
They have travelled
so far already,
battered bodies
fighting current
pushing upriver
when life calls them home
– some of them sooner than average,
jacks who take one for the team,
a dance with diversity.
No head or arms
to distance them
from thrust,
their only hope of rising
is full-bodied leap.
Obstacles crafted
to ease their journey,
each small barrier
unknowably tall,
each landing a pause
for more courage.
I can only assume
that salmon have no room
for despair,
no reservoir of doubt
or futile view;
their journey
full of ardour
propels them,
a bellyful of yearning
providing alignment.
Give me the wise blindness
of immersion,
a wild commitment
to my own arduous thrashing,
the freedom
to surrender into suffering
my own sweet homecoming.
Like a muscle gripped
against old pain
and softened,
discovering quiet after assault
like a candle snuffed out
by velvet night breezes
so darkness can dance
in a spangled cloak
like a spring-fed lake
whose only exit
is evaporation
ongoing
the opposite of hope
is not despair.
There was a lilypad
pushed by ripples
to rub up against the next,
opening like a baby’s mouth
to gawp against its neighbour.
I watched the green
look like it was eating its brother
but each soft undulation
left both unharmed.
There was a rain falling
so gently
it left no splashes on the lake,
reminding my body
of being watered.
Flowers in full bloom
on the surface,
other leaves suspended below,
upheld by water
and me and this damp page
receiving gratefully.
I am spending more time
with my prognosis:
dying
this death that seems slow
but won’t at the end
instead of putting on a sweater
and waiting in the office
for the name of it
I am lying in the sun
and letting rain touch me
the diagnosis sparks
such gossip
as if it were rare
did you know she is dying?
the telephones shrill
or thumbs sketch out conjecture
as if it were unheard of
and not inevitable
as if the support group
is exclusive
keeping you out
…welcome.
Leave no trace,
walk so gently
the earth feels your toes
as a tickle
and grass springs back
after your touch.
Start erasing
with kindness
all the pencil marks
sketching your contours,
all the measurements
planned for safe cutting.
Think of your seeds
not as tall trees
but welcome birdfeed,
sprinkled unnoticed
except by the singers
too focussed for gratitude
or questions.
This delicate invitation
to make space
for the wide empty,
the deeply soundless hum,
contains a slight echo of loss
and a welcome vibration
of freedom.
Sometimes I see all these buds
and drying leaves
and petals with tips curled inwards
and I want to be the warm soil,
lush rain,
hot loving sun
so that everyone I greet
can flourish,
so that the blooming
can bring joy to all of us.
This secret embrace
of strangers
and the flowers
entwined with my own stem
has pure intent
and deep tenderness.
Braver still
to be the sun
and warm lush
without hope for any change,
trusting in the thrive
I will never see.