Archive for the 'poetry' Category

The Question

amywink July 1st, 2018

On the floor
with this beautiful child
of my old friend,
I am so much in love
with her entire being,
in joy of her existence,
when she lifts her finger
to tap my arm and asks
“Are you white?”
and I am shot through
by the difference she
already knows is somehow
important, too much so
for her small being,
who at three, is figuring out
the world in which she lives.
I do not want to answer,
but I must answer
carefully, and in my answer
shift the question, expand
the differences so she
might see something
wider, something broader
something larger than the
either or she has already
noticed because of
her own difference
and I say “well, beige really”
and I show her the colors
of my skin on which her
finger continues to rest
as she ponders while
I breathe, hoping my
answer is a good one
for the time being,
knowing that it
also may not last,
thinking I must
make it last.

Eucharist

amywink June 15th, 2018

In the feather snowfall
of her sudden kill,
I am interrupted
by this hawk of my
morning’s contemplation,
who appearing, to my surprise
and wonder, arrived to share
this communion from the trees,
as remnants of
beautiful death drift
on the air,
down sinking
in the light

Her gaze holds mine
and we see each other,
perhaps she daring
me to move,
or just contemplating
my presence
before deciding
I am of no consequence
or danger she turns
her attention
and together we rest,
feasting in each other’s company.

“Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

amywink May 31st, 2018

In this place of presence,
I stand remembering,
church to the right
cemetery to the left,
thinking of the walk
between the two,
and I, instead, looking across
and into the memory
of wide fields and the horizon
east, when the sky filled
with billowing storms
and trains passed
north and south.

Standing here
in this thin, quiet place
between now and then
where once the favorite home
of my memory stood,
I returned to the porch
and steps and swing,
returned to when
I sat listening, at six or seven,
slowly opening to the way
I would learn to tell
the beauty of this
difficult world,
a gift arriving
on a whisper

“See? Here it is.

Here. . . here. . . here.

Tell it.”

and I began.

Tending My Eden

amywink April 14th, 2018

img_4991-1.jpg

A stranger stopped by
yesterday to tell me he
could make my yard spectacular
by clearing what he deemed
a mess and overgrown.

I asked the price for such
a miraculous change
and knowing that it wasn’t
something I could,
or even would, afford
despite the lower
second offer, I declined
because he didn’t know
where the beauty was
in all the mess he saw.

But I know beyond the mess.

I know what delightful beauty
waits here in this wild unruly green.

What may look like death
is only dormant and
will by my patience
eventually erupt
in spectacular bloom
when I have greater
need of the glory.

I know where the memories are,
the things I’ve inherited,
and my reasons for planting
some of this rough growth
that has endured in my benign neglect.

I do not mind the mess
I am simply waiting to attend.

And by this morning,
this gardener has woken
into this cool Spring day
and with my happy spaniels,
I have begun this seasons’ work,
thinking of the loveliness I have made,
what things I know of deliberate planting,
what I understand of different
rates of bloom or the timing
of my pruning if I am to be rewarded
with the flowering I intended,
what I must by necessity
cull if everything is to grow
as well as it may, and even
what volunteers I will
allow and foster simply
because their surprise will
make this unconventional Eden new
with their blooming
if I will wait
to see what happens
in this greater undertaking.

This garden may not be a landscaper’s dream,
stripped of difference for easy mowing.
Because I have planted something else
and I myself will slowly
tend all that is growing
into the wilder beauty
that I intend for it to be.

Old Wounds

amywink April 7th, 2018

These hidden injuries
from my other lives
go unnoticed by
my present company,
even by myself
forgotten in the years
between now and the deep
initial bruising or
splintering break,

until some accidental
hit strikes too close
or an unremembered
devastation rises
to tear whatever
patchwork mend I had
so cautiously protected
and carefully tended until
I, mistaken, thought
myself completely healed.

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