Meditating with Bees

Watching three bees hard at work
in purple blossoms of sage and mint
I practice radical acceptance
studying the flashing facets of a childhood memory:

screaming from pain and the shock
that my place of make-believe could harbor
this sudden venomous attack
stung by the bee and the cruel betrayal
of my beloved treehouse
wishing I could turn back time and find
another place to sit
and leave the bee in peace
to let me be
while my mother spread baking soda
on my knee

Four bees are now at work -
energy, danger, beauty, utility
held in the blooming space of my flower pot.

The world is better because of bees
and I am still
afraid.

I remember: Pre-apocalypse

I remember when summer's warmth was not
an angry hellish thing
I remember when islands did not drown
and winter did not ravage
when subway tunnels were free of floods
and mountains were covered in snow
and hurricanes and earthquakes and volcanoes
only occasionally laid waste
I remember when apocalypse was a subject
for speculative fiction
and doomsday was a war-born event
that treaties could at once prevent
I remember when humans were not dinosaurs
and water was not poison
and skies were not orange
and fish did not suffocate
and polar bears made sense

Summer, 2018

Farewell to a Tree

The cherry tree next door
Rotten to the core
Laughed so hard it split its sides.

How could that be?
That tree -
Home to hummingbirds,
Bearing blossoms whose storm-spun petals
filled the sky at the lick of a spring breeze,
Delicately dropping fruit with the kiss of June -
Must come down.

Even trees, it seems, cannot live forever.

Someone's Else's Shoes

Today I wore someone else's shoes
by accident

Worn out by anger
clothed in conviction

An ill fit that I knew at once.

I could not walk far in them.

Books and Biscuits

for Todd Bol, 
founder of the Little Free Library movement
rest in peace













In my neighborhood, dear one,

books wait for me around the corners

in little wooden boxes built with care that say

“Take one. Leave one.”

Text books, magazines, dog-eared classics

and brand new bits of wisdom 

or adventure.

I pull old friends off my shelves,

fill my backpack, 

and leave them by the armload.

They always find a home.

Your neighborhood may not be so blessed.

In your home, books are in short supply, 

but in this room we share,

we share -

words and stories, truth and laughter

snake skins and hand prints and 

portraits of princesses, 

robots and monsters,

hugs and tears and knock-knock jokes.

Take one. Leave one. 

And we will meet 

for hot chocolate and sourdough biscuits

on some fall day

surprised by sunshine

and books.

Tongue of a Teacher

The Lord has given me the tongue of a teacher
Teacher whose eyelids are weary
Weary of battling evil
Evil, a vast word
Word by word by word, we climb
Climb the daily steps
Steps of the temple of learning
Learning to be calm, be here, be wind
Wind and trees, river and stone
Stone that is shaped, river that flows
Flows and ebbs, erodes and feeds
Feeds the trees
Trees that give, trees that bear
Bear with the storms, bare in winter
Winter wind lashing the branches
Branches hung heavy with fruit
Fruit of the knowledge of good and evil
Evil, a vast word
Word of the Father
Father of lies
Lies of our leaders
Leaders with false tongues
Tongues that can lash
Lash like the wind
Wind that is weary
Weary of wandering
Wandering humble with bowl in hand
Hand to mouth
Mouth with a tongue
Tongue of a teacher.

Feet of Clay

Feet of Clay

Dear ones,
prayers of promise to the future,
I want you to know
I have feet of clay
And though I love you
I will forget -
names and birthdays and
how many lizards you have.
I will forget
and you will change.

You will grow tall
and lose your cherub’s fat.
Your face will harden,
maybe, too, your heart.
Your muscles will grow taut and lean.
Your hips may swell.
Your eyes may shift their sheen
While other dear ones fill my busy mind.

One day you will stand in my doorway
expectant
An eight-year-old only inside
inside
inside your eyes.
“Remember me?” you ask.

My heart remembers.
I promise it does.
But my brain is worn
and crowded as an antique train station
that welcomes hundreds
and sends them on their way.

Forgive me, dear ones.
I have feet of clay.