brambles and thorns

The raspberry tasted of youth.
‘How simple
this is,’
I thought, as I waited for
the coffee to brew.
It is raining today,
a cold rain,
a December rain.
It is only a few weeks away
from the solstice.
The days move so swiftly,
rushing after something I can’t quite see.
As I stood watching the rain
and eating the raspberries
that tasted of youth,
I tried to understand
how time keeps moving;
how this day seems to rush by
toward something I can’t see.
It was never like this
in my youth;
Time used to move gently.
I’d stand amongst the raspberries,
free from care,
just careful not to get pricked by the tiny thorns,
and eat, and eat, and eat.
I began to understand,
pulling myself out of my thoughts
and pouring my coffee,
that the raspberry patch was
my kingdom,
I felt safe there
tucked hidden in the thick brambles and thorns.
the world outside
was full of turmoil;
there was a man out there who was so fierce
that a few scratches
from the inside of my kingdom,
my sanctuary,
paled in comparison
to his anger.

getting older

I once had words that sounded beautiful.
I think I wanted
to make this sound nicer,
to make my thoughts
feel richer and stronger.
But this isn’t something
that really needs it,
even though it often comes to mind.
Now it’s midday
and I feel like taking a nap.
My eyes
are watering because I’m tired,
and my head starts to nod
Part of me says
that I should rest.
But I’m still here
thinking about getting older
about time,
and everything that’s happened since we
last met,
about the gray hairs
you have now
and my own baldness.
I think about wrinkles.
Mine come from life, from
living hard,
from all the trials I’ve faced.
And yours come from living
just living, the kind that feels boring,
growing older without learning much.
You see,
your corner office
has drained you.
The shell was still there
but the life you chose took something from you.
The love you talked about
wasn’t really love,
it didn’t give you what you needed
the way real love would.
The hands that would have
held yours through every hard time
are rough now with age,
and now they’re holding
someone else’s hands.
I’ll rest soon.
These thoughts come to me often,
usually right before I nap,
when my mind and heart
are tired and
start to think about getting older,
about time, and about the life
that I once wanted to share with you.

Do they eat old food?

Is it a chickadee or a nuthatch?
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.
The feeder rests
under the overhang.
I hold my breath and stay still as they come,
their delicate beaks
extracting a single seed;
Their thanks seem to glow in the morning air.
I should replace their food.
How old is it?
Do they eat old food?
I feel unsure about this
and so many other things.
If I take down the feeder,
They might think it’s gone and fly away.
It would take 5 minutes
to refill
but to them,
Maybe that pause feels like five hours or even five months to them.
The rain has made them hurry
when they feed.
They swoop in and quickly fly away
as they flash against the gray sky.
I sit quietly, letting my coffee cool as I watch.
These are only brief moments
for me
Yet for a chickadee, it might be a lifetime
Or perhaps a nuthatch
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.

a God

The driftwood, bleached by the sun, was entwined with seaweed.
It resembled the jawbone of a giant
cast ashore by a god more powerful than we can imagine.
To be a child again and allow such fanciful thoughts.
To believe in giants and gods.
And in a God.
‘I am a man,’ I tell myself.
‘I am an adult now,’ I tell myself.
It isn’t about giants hurling jawbones onto desolate shores.
It’s about storms, tides, saltwater, and sunlight.
I continue to stroll the barren shore.
It is autumn, and the biting wind drives most people away.
I stumble upon a teepee-like structure.
It was quickly built,
Obviously, the work of kids.
tourists, no doubt,
here for the summer – here for a day
on the coast of Maine.
I place my rain jacket on the sandy ground
inside the structure
and crawl in.
‘Here,’ I think,
‘This is where I will wait for those giants.
This is where I will wait for God.’

the bracelet

It’s no longer about the bracelet I bought for you, saying it was just friendship—the one I said wouldn’t be awkward. And it wasn’t, because I never gave it to you. It’s no longer about the small, delicate box left unwrapped at the bottom of my bag, a box I might leave there for months or even years. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, which feels strange.
I remember thinking, ‘Please let the weather be good so I can catch the one-hour flight.’ Of course, I could take the twelve-hour bus ride, but that would give me more time to think about the stranger I bought a bracelet for. I made the flight; the weather was fine. When my bag came down the luggage slide, I accidentally blessed myself, partly wishing the unwrapped box would disappear, something I wouldn’t want to keep.




Hymn

The crickets sing each night, starting at dusk. Not one or two, but thousands, each telling the entire story. Every year, again this year, they return to remind me of what I have forgotten, and what I keep forgetting. One might think the madness of these creatures would reveal their lesson. Perhaps the clamor of sound is a warning. “Ah, remember this, or they’ll be back!” But something is lost then, between dusk and when the birds return, and the frenzy of cricket song yields to the birds’ morning hymn. The birds don’t care if I forget again. They lull me into forgetting and the soft bliss of not remembering. That is sweetness.

bird feeder

A squirrel broke the
bird feeder.
How strange,
It was supposed to be
squirrel-proof.
They would leap,
trying again and again,
But the birds
just laughed.
Now,
The birds no longer come,
and they don’t
or share pictures.
A squirrel broke the bird feeder,
and we are no longer connected.