In the Silence

In the silence, at day’s end,

looking over the meadow,

I hear you say,

“You should work the land”.

Great Grandfather,

You were a logger.

You were a farmer.

I am not.  What is our connection

now a century past?

At the end of the road at Red Top,

I tried to find you.

Your sawmill, gone.

Tall tamaracks, gone.

Even sawdust

blown away.

What remained was the soil,

sewn with your sweat,

sewn with your dreams,

I found you there,

Your love of this land.

Great Grandfather,

We share a kinship

with each other,

with the land.

I plant trees

to remember,

those gone before

whose roots grow

deep in my bones.

Your voice was heard.

I could not leave Red Top

without something

to hold onto.

I collected a branch

from an old oak tree

you may have rested against,

in the silence, at day’s end.

My Grandmother Was Clever

My grandmother was clever,

she could tat a collar of lace,

make a doll out of a handkerchief,

and beat me at tiddlywinks.

In the end of her days, she was

heard conversing with her mother,

who passed when she was eight,

time’s veil having worn thin.

Today was warm and sunny,

I took my sandwich outside,

to eat at the picnic table,

and found you were there.

So we ate side by side,

mine peanut butter with jelly,

yours peanut butter with mayo.

Are you surprised I remembered?

Together for that moment,

eating with the sun on our backs,

yesterday as today,

without a breath between them.

Sorrow replaced by wonder

that time’s passage is not

terminal, only limited

by how we part the veil.

Gloria

Gloria is gone.

Covid stole her,

while we looked away.

Chickadee lies still

in the garden,

while we looked away.

Gloria asked angels

to lift her foot

as she stepped off.

Tiny bird entombed

between my hands,

Were angels there for you?

Gloria in Excelsis.

The Child cries alone

and we looked away.

Wind Howled in the Night

Wind howled in the night,

rain came down in torrents.

I awoke to birds singing

but heard you did not.

You who loved bright beads,

delighted in wearing a rainbow

of mismatched socks.

Who laughed so hard, we cried.

Every day birds take time

to sing out their hearts.

Do they do this to

let go of sorrow?

Intellectual disability,

a label about knowing less but

understanding more about

how vital it is to sing.

After the clouds blew off,

the sun shone this morning.

Despite this, the day didn’t

seem as bright without you.

Elise

Elise stands tall

On straight thin legs.

“I am almost ten”

she states.

That’s five plus five,

I marvel.

Elise stands proud.

“I don’t like sports.

I like music”

she reports.

What’s your instrument?

I question.

Elise never wavers.

“I like to sing”.

She stands tall

almost 10.

I listen,

bent with age.

In awe of youth.

Singing!

The Saga of Heavenly Hash

I know you remember

that evening so many years ago

in South Minneapolis

like yesterday.

Sitting side by side

on the porch front stoop

too hot to sit inside

the evening light fading.

Our hearts were one

as we poured out our

thoughts, hopes, and dreams

souls united from the start.

You on my left with your

deep tan and deeper insights.

Me with my long unshaven legs

and optimistic innocence.

The evening etched into memory

all because of two spoons

and a half gallon of ice cream

that disappeared as night set in.

Watering Trees

I remember

you as a young boy

going out to the field

with your father

to water trees.

He planted those trees

to protect the soil

creating shelter

for our home.

The trees grew tall

and you grew tall.

Now I see you

protecting your family

creating shelter

for your home.

Your son now

will need to learn

from you how to

water trees.

On The First Day

On the first day in June

the sky was brilliant blue,

so crystal clear it ran

through an icy stream

you could dip your cup into

and drink until you burst.

Life giving water flowing

over the forehead of

a newborn held so closely

by his father that their

hearts beat together as one

under a brilliant blue sky.

The Sky Darkened

The sky darkened with clouds.

Water sprinkled like rain

from the hands of the priest,

who draped the casket with

a white blanket as if

he was tucking in bed

his cold sleeping child.

In this tender action,

our loss too was covered,

not unlike a Band-Aid

hiding a weeping wound,

or newly laid tile

over old linoleum,

though neither captures it.

More like the first snowfall,

covering fallen leaves,

bare patches of dead grass,

fields of brown corn stubble,

suddenly cloaked in

white sparkling brilliance,

a paradise to behold.

We know what lies beneath,

sleeping through this season,

waiting till snow melts away,

verdant leaves bursting forth,

grass springing green overnight,

corn growing tall to harvest,

hope breaking through darkness.

CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting

He Was Only Four

He was only four

when he told his mother

he was a boy.

Then God said,  ”Let us make man…

He/him “was a light in my life

with so much more life to give.”

in our own image, after our likeness…

She/her “was an amazing mother

with a huge heart.”

He created he/him, she/her, they/them.

He/him “was kind, willing to go out

of his way to help others.”

He created them.

She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.

Everyone loved her.”

And it was so.”

He/him “found a community he loved

where he could really shine.”

We wept.

Her Hands Stretched Wide

Her hands stretched wide

across a growing belly,

searching for hope’s dance,

love’s secret within.

Seeing the unseen,

knowing the unknown,

bound eternally,

in blood and bone.

Hope denied, buried,

grave without a name,

sorrow never resting

stretches out its hands.

Blood will never see,

secrets within the vein,

bone will never hear,

a name only whispered.

My Hands Cradle

My hands cradle

the calabash,

scrubbing clean its

mottled brown skin.

Stretched tight over

a rounded belly,

its moisture lost,

dried seeds wait.

Coping with loss

is life’s journey,

was said as we

tied netted beads.

Around their hulls,

transforming gourds

into shakere,

beaded rattles.

A shake giving

voice to the hollow

bewitching beat

of the gourd dance.

“Ready to go,

ready to die”,

chant the rattle’s

ancient cadence.

Within its hollow,

loss and life lie

cradled together,

ready to sing.

At Thanksgiving

At Thanksgiving,

grief and sorrow,

took their place around the table,

on either side of gratitude.

At Christmas,

hope and joy,

joined in the festive celebration,

inviting remembrance to take a seat.

Easter is yet a mystery,

your face unseen,

known only in our hearts and bones.

We hold a place for you.

A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974

“Honey we love you very much.  We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”

I remember being small,

lost in a sea of legs.

Searching and sobbing,

you scooping me up.

“and times of foreboding.”

I remember being scared,

in shock after mother was shot.

Waiting side by side,

you consoling me.

“When these times come, pray to God.”

I remember being a bride,

walking down an aisle

on your arm having learned

love endures.

“When all else fails…”

I remember the sorrow,

you not knowing my name.

Then your heart sang out

calling ‘sweetheart’.

“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”

I remember your passing,

my glimpse of your spirit.

The message received,

love never fails.

My Father’s Stockings

He passed away

narrowly alone in

nursing home bed

once surrounded

by family

left now

in peace.

He may have worn stockings

to warm bony

cold blue feet

but the next morning

when we returned

only the bare

striped mattress

remained.

My father was

a clean man

who washed out

his stockings nightly

hanging them to dry

on the towel rack.

Something he learned to do

surrounded by brothers

with dirty feet.

We cleaned out

his drawers

his closet

his photos

leaving with bags

of a used life. Useful.

This for daughter

this for son,

this for donations

this for garbage.

The stockings

for donation laid

on top of the heap

for days

then seeing

their worn heels

their prickly

elastic tops

were placed

in the garbage.

One pair never

passed on but

remains in my

sock drawer

silently awaiting

hands that

hold turn

and remember

the man.

Two Deer

Two deer lay side by side

on an island of grass,

surrounded by snow,

waiting for sunrise.

I watched from my window,

delighted with their ease,

blessed to be included

In this landscape we share.

A bald eagle watched,

perched high atop a tree,

messenger of prayers

between souls now and past.

How do the departed slip

past the sleeping deer,

past the morning sunrise,

past our out stretched hands?

On the eagle’s wings

their spirit soars, not past,

within the landscape

of our shared existence.

Never far, always near,

joined with us, sharing love,

joy, sorrow, and prayers,

sunrises and sunsets.

Under Cover of Lipstick

Under cover of lipstick,

she took on the world.

Fire Engine Red, I teased her,

a nineteen-sixties siren.

Left behind her mark on

coffee cups and children’s cheeks,

giving life to her pale lips,

igniting a glowing smile.

That hid sorrow well until

the undertaker applied it

for the final time after which

those lips sealed the secret.

You told us he died,

such a long time ago,

crying to keep him buried,

but behind those tears, he lived.

Did you lie to protect us

or to protect yourself?

Sometimes what is apparent,

is nothing more than a ghost.

I rub the lipstick off my cheek,

still covering the truth.

and Death Shall Have No

and Death shall have no

dominion but time,

time is an open wound

never healing, picked

raw in secret.

Five years now have passed.

Seeing your face in

anguish etched into

memory that stands

frozen, helpless.

Time holds me captive.

Richness of happy days.

Poverty of loss.

Death’s dominion grips

what time is left.

Thanksgiving is past.

Snow blankets a frozen

world not dead, at rest,

awaiting rebirth,

awaiting hope.

I Laid My Hand

I laid my hand

against your cheek

holding what remained.

Your face etched

in memory as

life ebbed away.

A tree branch flung

my glasses off,

far into the snow.

Blinded I searched,

until my heart

began to see.

Three days you walked

through the valley

shadowed by death.

Goodness and mercy

followed, while bedside,

I sat helpless.

Looking in a mirror

my heart now sees

our reflection.

I lay my hand

against my cheek,

holding what remains.

I Thought of You

I thought of you today.

Snow has melted away

from the burial mound

of grass clippings you left.

Things seem unfinished

that never had an end.

Why ask why, when there’ll

never be an answer?

This is what I know from

all my years of living.

Pain cannot be treated

with a Band-Aid and a kiss.

Too much insulation

stops a house from breathing.

Crumpled paper cannot

keep china from cracking.

Closing your eyes will not

shut out the world.

I thought of the cabin.

Plywood covering the doors

and windows has not stopped

squirrels from getting in.

You shut your eyes when life

became unbearable.

Winter ended. Spring began.

The grass grows green again.

The Table Stands Empty

In a cavernous silence

the table stands empty.

Yellow leaves drift down

covering its surface.

Yesterday we sat there

feasting on colors

of light and love spinning

a cocoon together.

Within its snug safety

dark places opened.

The work of our hands

became the work of our hearts.

Today we awaken,

bright colors painted,

strong baskets woven,

awaiting butterflies.

Colors

Colors cascade

from hands of

friend to friend.

Delighted like girls,

bonded like women,

who know places

not all hearts

have found

together.