Today I will
write a poem about
a worthy Cecropia moth
on Arizona Avenue in Orange City
It will not be about surviving my first blistery-cold and snowy winter in Iowa, having left Mediterranean-mild LA
It will not be about that woody cocoon carefully woven during the brisk fall, along the rim of the back porch step, surviving frostbite all winter long, while the water pipes in our old farmhouse couldn’t do it and burst
It will not be about the moth’s two-minute life, a being created to live a full two weeks on earth with a wingspan the length of my hand
It is not about its juicy abdomen–a fat soft thumb–holding big bright eyes on its winged back, (which did not camouflage the moth the first and only time it needed to be) as the Cecropia rested on the sidewalk drying its wings and gaining strength
It is not about a bird with a good appetite that didn’t care about the irony of biting into that abdomen, this fresh singing newness of moth.
Rather it is about the ethereal, ephemeral sense of living a life of praise.
I wake up to the quails singing
praise. After a winter of denned-down
waiting, they make their sweet company known:
In the flutter and rhythm of wings
In the scurry of food-enough pursuit
In their joy of dusty dry bathing
I remind myself to live this day.
The Kwansaba I meant to praise today:
Each April morn, a friend places a
gentle lure in my box. I cast
my line into the boiling, teeming ideas
of the day, the week, the life.
When its hooked, I land–not the
dying–but the living words of life.
Praise prompt makers and those who witness.
Finding Voice
What do you have to say? (Sway)
Do you mean side to side? (Hide)
Hiding your truths, you mean? (Keen)
Really, you can be true. (Poo!)
Your voice is dear (Fear)
We want to hear you. (Who?)
You! All your angles (Strangle)
I don’t want you to hide (Tried)
Keep trying. You can do it. (Sit)
Yes, waiting here, I will. (Hill)
It’s beautiful on top (Flop)
We all make mistakes (Stakes?)
Yes, they can be high (Try)
Great! You’ll cope. (Hope)
This morning
as I fill the
hummingbird feeder
with sweet nectar,
thinking I should
clean the bowl with
soapy water first
(but I don’t)…
I am brought back to my
childhood.
I’m in the backyard
changing the water for K.C.,
our loud and wild beagle
who scares the neighbors
when he gets out, but
always makes us feel safe.
K.C. who adores us.
On all fours,
I bend over
and put my whole mouth
into the water,
taking a long
and green-cool
drink from his mossy bowl.
Somehow, I assure myself
if this bowl is clean
enough for me,
it will do for him.
I coach myself
at this new moment,
again an eight-year-old.
Continue to care
for the creatures,
like you do yourself,
for they are creators
of wonder
and of colors
and of love.
here I am
sleeping in, it’s time to scram
hubby’s birthday, kids are here
cheer
try again
counting skills I can obtain
this form has rules I to heed
need
For Vinolia
It’s taking me minutes to scroll through
all the What’s App messages–
Back to the beginning of our friendship.
At this late hour, I thought I would just
look for something funny
we had said to each other.
As I start to write this, I’m still scrolling.
When the rolling stops, I roll again,
like a gambler–through dozens,
Hundreds. No, it’s got to be thousands
of messages we have sent since 2014.
Starting when we lived in the same town,
now 7000 miles apart, and we are
still texting. Instead of something funny,
though, I’m finding all the messages
are making me homesick for you.
As I remember all the mischief,
all the memories, all the ministry fruit,
all the fancy foods, all the plans,
all the prayers, all the purple,
and now these messages are
tonight’s balm for my tears.
For Grandma
I’ve been writing this since
I was six years old and we
young ones had to climb
into the broken window
to unlock the door to get all
into the house where the birds
had taken up residence
I’ve been writing this since
that house became your home
and that kitchen became where
we watched you make popovers–
you gently beating the eggs and milk
and stirring in the flour
until just moistened.
I’ve been writing this since
your index finger spatula-ed
out every last bit of the batter
into the mismatched custard cups
and baked them for what seemed
like hours at two different temperatures
I’ve been writing this since
those popovers, with their custardy
interiors and crispy toasted outsides,
came out of the oven
we broke them open
and added
honey
or boysenberry jam
or syrup
and ate our fill
on those slow deserty mornings
at your house
I’ve been writing this since
I found those old custard cups
high on a shelf in Lori’s laundry room
and she welcomed me to take
them home, and now I’m
the grandma who bakes popovers
in the desert. And you would be glad
to hear that I’ve got your magic spatula
finger so I don’t waste a drop
