Looking after the world

 

I love looking out on the second hottest day of the year to see a goldfinch, its back to the afternoon sun the shawl of its feather’s double gold, a gold that makes you swoon or cry or just exclaim, “Yes, that’s it! That is, it!” And one post over is the perfect lady goldfinch, subtle and more beautiful than should be possible. And the sun sort of sulks seeing them there.

The four kits are venturing further and further into the yards, even in the heat they are out after the clover. Then there is that moment they see something, and they all shuffle run back to the deck. Though I have noticed they like to chase birds, I guess because they want whatever falls from the feeders too.

This morning before it got extra, extra hot I had some yardwork to do and as I was finishing, I noticed a cowbird panting under the forsythia. It was quite warm, so I found the old pie pans I used last year, filled half it with rocks and the rest with water setting them around the yard in the shade for insects, birds or any being needing relief. I was just out a few minutes ago to refill them and chat with a dog walker, place my trashcan out. It is 88 now but feels like 96, so a relief.

I have been trying to write a poem about how an eleven-year-old knows how to cover herself in her friend’s blood to survive a massacre. It may be one of those things a poem cannot hold, my heart can’t hold it, it makes my headache. How does she go on? How do those parents. The nation moves on, leaving those burying children and grief on their own. I started reading David Sedaris’s latest book, Happy-Go-Lucky, and the first essay is called Active Shooter and I had to put it down and walk around the house, go out and touch the maple tree, stand in the extraordinary heat. The tree does not need us, the sun doesn’t care if it cooks us into oblivion, these things are just doing their job something we are failing at, looking after each other, looking after the world.

If a goldfinch could bring peace, feed the world, heal everyone, would we notice?

Weak hand writing and prompts randomly applied

Daybreak, birdsong, leaf chatter: the things that do not care about the things that matter to you. That sliver of moon last night, the handful of fireflies under the maple. The rain that falls right now, telling stories – what it has always said before, but more urgent.

In the foggy dawn
we walk, chatting
about what we always
chat about: world problems
oddities of the town,
our own somewhat broken
but grateful hearts.

We carry these things
like a lit candle
careful to use the heat,
the light and the hesitant
life the flame holds.

~~~

The hummingbird comes to the window, looks at its own perfection, turns left and right admires that fiery red throat, the iridescent green and for one moment the swoon nearly knocks him out.

~~~

A prayer of protection against the night

I have changed and now
know a kinder language
then some I have uttered.

Once those syllables let go,
moths into a candle-fed
room, where each word flared.

~~

"I'll go through the closets and cupboards to find things for auction..."

        ~~Jane Kenyon, Church Fair

Two soup spoons, mismatched

an old silk tie

my tithe has grown small.

What's a little non-belief between friends?

Today I was at the local Red Cross office as Jerry gave blood. I was trying to sit quietly and read (The Dazzle of Day by Molly Gloss, which I’m rereading) when the volunteer who ran the front desk, an older man, came over to chat. He wanted to know if we gave blood often and I told him we’d only started after so many years of not being able to. He asked why and I said we’d lived in Europe and for a long time you couldn’t donate. He asked where and I said Italy, Germany and Belgium. He asked if I’d seen the Pope while I was in Italy and I said yes, a few times.

Then he wandered off and then came back. “When you were in Belgium did you have a waffle?” “Yes. And chocolate.” He wandered off; I opened the book. He came back, “Did you have that Italian coffee when you were in Italy?” “Yes, often.” “And you saw the Pope?” “Yes, I saw a Pope. Not the current Pope.” “I don’t know about this Pope; he seems to not follow the rules. He’s sort of liberal.” “I don’t think he’s liberal enough.” -- I get the first “look” --“He seems to be out there on marriage. It’s not falling in line with traditional marriage and the church.” (I really want to read my book.) “In what way?” I ask. “Well, he’s not following the rules. And he seems to be accepting of those men who want to be girls or girls who want to be men.” “I don’t have a problem with that, but I think he has a long way to go.” “Don’t you think that people should be as God created them.” “I guess that would depend on your belief in god.” “You don’t believe in God?” “No, I do not.” – the “look” again, and a sigh and he walks away and sits down at the desk.

But I got to read.

I feel like I’ve been traveling for months. I left for Oregon on April 4th and returned May 18th. Then after a weekend that flew by (a couple of days running errands and making it to appointments) I drove to Dayton Ohio, Jerry had site visits and I was a tag along. The follow-on trip was to Columbus where oddly enough the newlyweds make their home, so even though the man had to work, we also got to see those crazy kids. (And in-laws!) Lovely time. Some good food, a lot of great company, a community market, a flea market, some cat hugging (no matter how they fight, I get a hug in). And then yesterday a drive home.

I guess after all the good vibes a questionable encounter with a Catholic was due. The last time I spoke to an older Catholic man I was protesting a Planned Parenthood protest (they were not ready for me joining the group with a sign countering theirs) and I actually had a nice chat. We agreed that the best way to help stop abortion was to allow access to healthcare, education and birth control. Pro-choice does not mean anti-life, pro-life does not mean you can’t see other ways to help.

Anyway, it’s June. There’s a low cloud over the world blocking the light. Global. National. Local. Personal. I want to add something here, but I can’t think of an inspiring thing right now. I think I need to go read.

My horse was a willow

Well, a lot of walking the perimeter in Enterprise. But this is a tree I’ve passed by twice in the last two days. It’s in front of a house we lived in before we moved to Joseph. The land behind the property is now Wallowa County Nursery, when we lived there it was a pasture. So just this poem written about this tree a few years ago (the prompt was willow) and a historic event.

(And a lovely meeting today in Joseph with a favorite poet/teacher/fisherman/new dad. How we meet and re-meet our poet friends is a wonder.)

Ignite

My horse was a willow
that stood tethered by roots
in the gentle curve of our driveway
just across the railroad tracks.
I rode each day, my reins and stirrups adjusted
in the baling twine. The low branch, as wide
and round as a Percheron, carried me. My racehorse
or bronc, hunter and cow horse.
I galloped as log trucks and cattle trailers
rattled past, guiding my sure foot
along cliffs and desert dunes.

The night the Grain Growers exploded
like the Leonid Storm, the burning wheat
falling over the surrounding farms
and fuel depot, my father ran to call Uncle Pat,
divined ways to get us away from the blast
that would plow down our road.

I sat on my steed its gray and silver mane
picking up the flames, imagined sorrel,
and began to whip the flank
tucked myself tight over the hard bark
shoulders and loosened reins
willing a run that would save us all
from the fire.

Here now

Today I was out walking in this small town. The town where I was born, a place we lived until I was six (before moving to New Mexico and Colorado) and then returned to a few years later. Staying until I was eleven, when we moved to Joseph. There are many houses around the town we lived in or had friends, relatives, places I walk past that have memories. One corner a woman had a parrot, not a friendly parrot, but she let us talk to it. On another a retired teacher who read us books. The library was just a few blocks away from some of the houses, in another we had to ride our bikes to get there.

I learned to swim at the pool, beside the city park. I used to go to the park at night, years later in my cape and swing and swing and swing. Today I did a quick turn on the swings and then walked up the little hill; the pool a dead spot in the grass, long gone. I walked down past the fairgrounds, there are some little places that way with horses around them, the scent of old hay and mud and horse and manure still a nostalgic aroma. Deer wander all over, nibbling lawns, watching me with careful stares. When I return to my mother’s house all of the neighbor’s chickens are feasting on the lawn, their dogs in the chicken yard doing what dogs do, eating things.

I talked to a man who had worked with my dad, whose children I once babysat, who I last saw three years ago when he helped my parent’s move to this place right before my dad passed away. He told me about a road trip he took with his parents and siblings and grandmother in the late 1950’s, a six-week trip through Texas and Missouri, Wyoming and Iowa. “Let me tell you,” he said, “that’s a long way to go with your grandma.”

Here's a poem from today and some pictures of this randomness.

                                     

Here now the hill
raced down on bikes
its steepness conquered
by our trusted brakes, our balance.
Here now the small downtown.
It seems a full third
of the buildings boarded
up or under renovation.
Here now the old market
local owned and loved.
Here now the library,
the courthouse denuded
of pines. The bookstore
that opens at 7:30 AM!
The former Safeway;
the former butcher shop;
the former steakhouse;
bar; 24-hour café; drug store
all gone. Here now the reformed
curve that leads to Hurricane Creek,
Joseph, the lake. Here now
all the houses on the streets
where we walked and rode,
skipped and ran, under
the mountain’s watch.

Leave your wishes

The mountains have taken a day

off they’ve pulled the clouds tight
over their shoulders and closed

their door. Come back tomorrow
or later in the week, I’m bingeing
on falling snow, I’m collecting ice
where so little has been, I’m saving
any words for the birds and trees
I’m thinking that the Earth’s turn
has been premature. Leave your wishes
at the timberline, I’ll feel better soon.

The day lightens and then lightens more

Overnight the trees bloom
monochrome blossom, soft down.
& the birds are silent this dawn
yesterday’s sun & activity
ushering in this morning.
Quiet & rest. The snow
still sifting down, heavy
with water & promise.

Along the pond the only sounds are ducks plunging under water and then popping back up; the puddled softness of snow falling into the water from the overhanging branches. A snowy pond music, a mid-April melody. The day lightens and then lightens more. I make the first human trail. I see goose tracks, a rabbit, something went under the snow across the path and their tunnel has since collapsed. Bird tracks everywhere: how do I read these notes?

The snow is so wet, heavy, melting everywhere (in the back of my mind, please don’t freeze – don’t get colder) a steady stream of water off the lodge roof; at my cabin, I could hear the snow compressing, crashing down.

It is quiet off the lakebed (how many times have I written quiet this week?) the view limited. An insect lands on a bare stalk of yellow grass, “Careful,” I warn, “the swallows are out.” As if on cue a hawk on the willow flinches as it is dive bombed by a bold swallow. It shrugs off the attack like the snow on its feathers.

The clouds rise. The far ridge can be seen still holding a shawl of cloud over its shoulders but clearing above. The lakebed visible again. It is eight o’clock. This weather is only a needed pause.

It is Saturday, the 16th of April. Miles away, thousands, in another country, another time zone, another wide place, my baby girl, my Bambina, our lovely and loved daughter is getting married. Their wedding day, like her life the way she wanted it, they. It’s as though the snow brought such perfect silence so I could lean into the world and almost hear their voices. That simple promise, “I do”.