once I dug holes in red sticky clay and filled them with fascinations
small gnarled twigs old rusted bolts fragments of shell
stories I heard from each of these I also threw in
with my commonplace dreams everyday hopes ordinary loves
I once tried to show them to her in shy offering to gain a brief smile
my dirtied hands were pushed away then I dropped my gaze and left
quelled by the holes that became her eyes
though roughened by sickness and age
my voice remains a guide rope
she clings to from afar
while buffeted by tumultuous circumstance
lacerated by inner rumination
sometimes I wonder if this will hold
if her fear will cause her to let go
in between our calls I strengthen knots for better grip
she talks and I listen
choosing any words in response with care
the space that I offer rests on kind awareness
a reminder that someone knew her, continues to do so
remains with her
then and now and here
then and now and here
what recourse in the face of it all,
it being suffering wherever we turn?
days run hot; tempers run hotter.
each bring wildfires razing all to the ground.
some, crazed, scrabble amidst smoking debris
seeking hot cinders to spread more flames.
in their madness they believe only they will survive.
they have swallowed the sun and made it a weapon,
their delusions obscuring that it also gives life.
another way, a different choice:
some firewalkers step through ash and char
finding who they can help,
sometimes if only to bear presence to loss.
these haven’t forgotten the moon but placed it internal
making their hearts shine with cooling light,
thus they remember ways of kindness.
earth now witness, death and life:
how shall you choose? how shall you live?
when air is too heavy to breathe
and heat an inescapable surround,
trees begin to scream.
were we to hear these death shrieks,
would we open our mouths agape and join in,
until the earth rang with fiery laments of rage and grief?
more likely shake our heads in momentary sadness,
return to our cool interiors,
watch a documentary about magnificent forests,
perhaps remarking, “oh, what a shame.”
some willfully ignore the sound,
disbelieving that anything deciduous has a voice
or one that counts, as it does not vote or work for them.
most will be unable to hear,
too busy groaning out their own last gasps
as they labor under the the sun’s relentless gaze,
while we privileged few live in the shade.
best start listening now.
when they become silent, that is the end.
our screaming will last for a much shorter time than theirs.
she put me in the car
drove headlong into the oncoming lane
that was the first time
she picked up a skillet full of hot oil
flung it at my head
that was the second time
she took me to a strange city
abandoned me on the street
that was the third time
I never knew still do not know
what she thought to do by any of these things
the first destroyed a sense of security
but heightened awareness
the second killed a hope for love
but taught trust in reflexes
the third wiped out desire for a relationship
but rewarded the tendency to be prepared
I cannot say I lost her-how do you lose one you never had-
though for many years I grieved over the empty space
where she might have been
this has become only sadness
over what she could have had
over the damage she must have suffered
over the inability to build a bridge she would accept
but also gratitude for the strengths I have
my heart once so hurt I did not think it would ever heal
now opens wide enough to invite the world
to rest within an infinite expanse
flowers have died despite care
we too shrivel in the dry hot wind
we wait upon rain in the evening
placing hope in the massing gray clouds
neighbors murmur to each other
tonight I have heard it will come
one places an umbrella beside the door
another his rain boots
and one carefully checks her water gauge
remember how recently it poured everyday
vegetables rotted before they could be picked
ants invaded homes to escape the wet
streets became fast-flowing creeks
drought, flooding, we move through it all
with eyes closed and fingers crossed
believing that superstitious behaviour will save us
instead we are being delivered
to the consequences of turning away
when shall we mourn
how shall we grieve
long ago I would listen to bullfrogs
now in the evening I watch fireflies
these two acts feel connected
spacer beads on the same mala
the croak and flicker measuring a length
thus I count my moments lived
thus they in turn count me
a silent mantra humming
this and this and this and this
outside the heat tries to draw me back
with air that shimmers visibly above the street
asking me to recall other roads in other times
I’ve been down them so much
that I still pick gravel from my shoes
today I turn away and close the door
then go into the cool shadowed room
any memories that linger beyond
can burn away in the sun
as a child, I knew that I was ordinary
I am ordinary today
nothing I did was new, nor is it now
anyone could do it, anyone can
it being whatever act might be called out as special
my circumstances were not ordinary
I had little control over those
I did what anyone would
Made the best of where, when, and how
still I do this but now with a bit of grace and ease
not hard to learn for anyone
was I ever able to talk?
on that day when the cloud covered the sun
then split open for just one second
so that light became a focused dazzle
I remember speaking
not important nor memorable nor heard
something dropped from my mouth
a foreign coin falling from the pocket of a careless guest
I am a visitor here
have spent my time in useless loiter
pacing the platform of trains that do not exist
when the next one arrives, I shall board
settle into the window seat until I am home
pay the conductor with another word
another word another word
placed with attentive care into his waiting hand