National Poetry Month: Day Thirty

Sadness

This is fair.
This is good.
This is the sadness I can name
embroider my initials on
knit around me
like a prayer.

This is the sadness of loving
just the right amount
from open eyes
from letting go at just the right moment
like the wind catching at a kite
and delivering it up to a perfect
blue sky.

National Poetry Month: Day Twenty Nine

Wolf at the Door

Sometimes I can hear
his hot breath on the welcome mat
and sometimes
it is the sharp click of paws
as he paces, waiting
for the other shoe to drop
for something to go terribly wrong
an accident
heartbreak.

Sometimes he sleeps
and we step gingerly
over his furry back
as we go in
and come out of the house.

Some nights
he sits in the yard
and howls at the moon.

Some nights
I do too.

National Poetry Month: Day Twenty Eight

Door

To know the way in
does not make the journey
less arduous.

The night is still long.

The dark wood presses in on all sides.

Pray for compassion.
Pray for light.

Don't forget the path is ever before you.
Don't forget the ones who have gone before.

When you arrive
remember
you have to knock.

National Poetry Month: Day Twenty Seven

Late Matinee

We stumble out of the dark theater
shaken
a little tear-stained
and way too full
of popcorn
to contemplate dinner.

National Poetry Month: Day Twenty Six

It Is Good

It is good to know
when to surrender
when to give up
on things going
the way you imagined / rehearsed
and to open
your hands / head / heart
to what is truly and utterly
 in front of you

blemish  imperfection  chaos

the humanness of it all

which is also beautiful
in a way
you could never have conceived.

National Poetry Month: Day Twenty Five

Moment

Halfway through
the rambling description
of yesterday's sky I realize
this is going
nowhere.

It would certainly help
if the grass were not
so damn green

or if the light did not insist
on shoving itself
through the blinds
so provocatively

if dinner did not want
so desperately
to be prepared

mushrooms leaping off the counter
and the fish leaning suggestively
toward the oven.

I find it impossible
to clear my head.

National Poetry Month: Day Twenty Four

Song

Today is the day
when it just may not happen.

Tell that to the sun and shadow
playing on the front lawn
or the tiny brown birds hiding
in the tall grass of the backyard.

Tell it to the vine of morning glory
climbing so patiently up
a strand of yarn
it is almost heart-breaking.

Tell it to the familiar chaos of the desk
or the happy accident of the clean kitchen table.

Tell it to the sausage singing in the pan.