Who’ll wire us back together?

A year ago, facing surgery,

I watched this hummingbird

Drink from the flowers,

Not knowing if I’d be doing it 

Again a year later. 

I find I’m conscious lately 

Of just how much 

My life has changed since then

And yet how little, in comparison 

To others, who now live in fear 

Of things — ICE, accusation, 

Incarceration, deportation—

That seem much worse to me 

Than death, and so unfair. 

I touch my chest, and feel the ridges 

Where I’m wired back together 

And wonder: who’ll repair my country’s heart 

And wire us back together?

Painting as prophecy

I never know (or plan) 

What I’m going to paint until it’s painted, 

But this one was even

More of a surprise than usual, 

And yet, upon reflection, it makes sense, 

So I have to wonder: 

Can intuitive painting become 

A sort of reflective prophecy?

A fortuitous fail

Our Fathers Day plans failed to bear fruit, 

For the ferry we drove an hour to catch 

Had been grounded, due to an accident. 

In wending our way slowly home, 

We found ourselves surrounded 

 By fields full of foxglove, 

Rosy and glowing in the afternoon sun. 

Some might think that small compensation 

 For the hours of wasted time driving,

 But in fact it was a glorious gift, 

And we laughed and smiled 

All the rest of the way back home.

Protesters

Emerging from their cone of green, 

The thin vermilion trumpets 

Sound their call to action. 

I want to ask who planted you 

In this dense thicket of blackberries and salal, 

Or did you volunteer to shout 

CODE RED to all the passers by, 

Inspiring us to do the same; to stand like you 

Beside the public thoroughfares 

Like signs objecting to injustice; 

Proclaiming your right to live and work there, 

 Orange in a sea of green?

Distractions

This is how my mornings go: 

My cat — when not in my lap — 

Sits in the window across from me, 

 Staring through the screen of volunteer foxglove 

At the bunnies, quail, and butterflies 

 Who frolic just beyond his grasp 

While his sister sits behind me,

 Watching the hummingbirds 

 Who gather at the feeder 

She can see through the sliding glass door, 

While I, distracted by them both, 

And by the deer who wander by, 

Forget to listen for my toast, 

Eventually rising to butter 

Two cold hard slices of bread. 

How can such peace exist 

In a country so at war with itself?

Butterfly

A simple butterfly, seen through my windshield, 

When I pulled off the road to check my messages; 

A gift in black and white, alighting in the green 

To drink the floral scents: 

Music to my eyes.

Protest poppies

I’m pleased to post a purple poppy picture 

And pen a purple poppy poem (Or prose, perhaps) 

In protest, and to pose the possibility 

 That only poppies and princes 

Are empowered to put on crowns 

Or produce parades whose price exceeds 

 The payments pledged to be preserved 

 By pruning patronage and protection for the poor.

Such is grace

To find beauty in the wholeness of things, 

Up close, mid-range, and far; 

Past, present, future, 

All that was and is and shall be, 

All combined into 

 This one imperfect gift of a moment: 

Such is grace.

Beauty everywhere

I really do believe there’s beauty everywhere,

Though we can’t always see it.

Little miracles abound: 

I had a teacher once 

Who said just throw a hula hoop 

And then look where it falls,

And somewhere inside the arc it circumscribes 

We would find something photographable, 

Or that could be described 

In a poem, or tell a story. 

Though I outgrew the hula hoop 

My eyes still inscribe those circles…

UnCivil

Yesterday I was admiring 

These clouds, like smoke, 

Drifting across the sky, 

So peaceful… 

And so my brain was patterned on them

The way that happens for visual people, 

And so, and so, and so, 

When later those photos caught my eye, 

I thought, more clouds, but no! 

Angelenos, protesting these heinous raids, 

And the National Guard, called out again, 

Against our own people — 

Not peace but war, 

UnCivil.

Confidence

Just as the sunlight singles out 

A random boat, in life 

The spotlight falls on one celebrity 

And then another as time passes.

 All is fleeting, fragile, chance; 

Acceptance or rejection 

Hanging on a thread 

Of mood, or history, or taste — 

So obvious to some 

While others sneer and mock 

The fashion of the moment. 

Confidence must stem 

 From some internal knowing, 

Never the capriciousness of opinion.

Okay to be a rock

Everything I read says it’s okay 

To just be stillness, and silence.

 It’s good, too, of course, to be a prophet,

 Objecting loudly to things as they are; 

To march, or write, on behalf 

Of all the absent kindness and morality —

 I’ve done that, too; 

 Been a voice for change, 

But now it’s okay — Maybe more than okay? — 

To be a rock; 

To let the dark cast its shadows 

And just be calm, solid, 

A stable presence in the shifting light; 

A promise, grounded, earthy, 

That beneath the shadows 

Truth still breathes 

 Quietly.

Heart like a bird

When silence, like a fog, 

Springs up between us, 

I can begin to detect 

The heart that, like a bird, 

Rests in the branches of your body — 

Fragile, eager, and protective, 

Its wings so strong and capable; 

Always ready to fly to my defense; 

A heart that’s often masked 

In the complexity of your words…

So much for AI

I thought I'd write about being a bird, 

So to illustrate the poem,

I typed the word “bird” so AI could search 

The photos on my phone. 

And there, mixed in with the herons, the crows, 

The pigeons, gulls, and finches, 

Was this little guy. 

And then I thought, 

If I climbed a tree, would AI think me a bird? 

If I stood behind an altar, 

Would AI call me a priest? 

And if I sat behind a desk in the Oval Office, 

Would AI assume I was actually presidential?

Awash in gratitude

It’s curious: 

That spot in our garden has been empty: 

Just  bark for five years now. 

But suddenly this spring 

 A foxglove forest has sprung up: 

Some white, some pink, some purple — 

So many stalks, with broad leaves at their base, 

Where nothing grew before. 

Though some would claim they’re weeds,

 I find myself 

Awash in gratitude.

Feeding time

On waking, I feed the cats, 

But looking out the window 

I see the bird feeders are empty, 

So I step outside to fill them, 

And at the bottom of the steps 

There stands a doe, her white fur 

Gilded by the morning sun. 

“Hello, deer,” I say, 

And “where’s your little boy?” 

But she won’t tell me where 

She’s tucked him in; Just stands there, 

Waiting patiently while I pour the birdseed in, 

Watching with her trusting eyes 

 Till I go inside to grab a bunch of peanuts 

 And toss them into the grass for her to feast on. 

I cannot feed the world, 

But at least I can feed my gentle neighbors.

I could be a fig

Today I could be a fig, 

All my creative potential 

Tucked like Adam’s after the fall 

Behind a giant, heavily veined 

Leaf or two 

Or three, 

However many it takes 

To mask my swelling sac of sweetness 

As it grows more taut within its skin, 

Darkening with possibility, 

Fed by all the forbidden knowledge 

Eaten over time, 

Bursting to feed generations…