Flu season

Delighting in sunlit moments,

I would grow into a large and languorous beast

were it not for my visitor, this blessed and most vexing virus.

Oh dear virus, you give me gifts of vagueness and lassitude.

You give me gifts of irritation and inflammation.

Snot’s not your only offering but also challenge and answer.

White cells battle with viral invaders. Tiny life is lost on my behalf. 

Here is another (another!) lesson on the inner struggle

and I wipe metaphor from a reddened nose.

I enter the day with heat, joy and hacking cough.

I am taught again that food is simply sustenance--

learn that both health and sickness are obscuring veils.

I pray today for all those who are well, that they may not languish.

From my nest of crumpled tissue I pray that I may respond as valiantly

as my white cells—

—as the least of my humble white cells—

to this vast world of woe.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------(rhonda)

My child, preparing for surgery.

Your transgendered body will move as gracefully as ever,
hands molding time into beautiful moments.
Your grey eyes, brightening with hope,
will still spill light into dark corners.
The road ahead of you unwinds in the same rambling fashion.

The road behind is quiet now, but traces of you
                           have shaped this landscape forever.
Some things change.
Some things stay the same.


----------------------------------------------------(mo8m)

A Note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;

to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain
from everything it's not;

to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;

and if only once
to stumble upon a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.

                  (Wislawa Szymborska)

Double Helix

The Double Helix nebula, located near our own galactic center

I lie in the nest of the easy chair, babe asleep on chest,

his warm heaviness seeps into my core

making my arms heavy with joy,

weighing down my eyes with joy,

filling up my heart with joy.

Here is a little boy on my body,

never in it but borne from it nonetheless.

Nearby my daughter sleeps after her long ordeal—

her deep familiarity easing into eyes and heart.

I hold what is from her

but is not her.  I hold what is from me but is not me.

We nestle together neath the warmth of a westering sun—

and I am from that sun but am not myself a sun.

My heart bears heat from the very core of that yellow star,

bears light from its light, but is not that star.

This child of my child is also a child of that sun.

Together we lie comfortably in the world, in this chair,

waiting patiently for the sun to set,

for other stars to fill the warm night air.

-------------------------------------------------------(rhonda)

Character

Stendhal said, "One can acquire everything in solitude except character."

Character lives in the spaces between us. 

When plunged into the texture of faces—the smell of others—

our character is molded and carved;

is struck, stymied, woven, wondered.

In crowds we experience the numinous firsthand. 

No need to question the miracle of infinity: it is before you. 

No need to force gratitude from a miasma of loneliness— 

gratitude is on the menu at dinner. 

Separate universes—wholly other—

Friends may look familiar

but they bring us to our knees time and again.

They condone, condemn, digress and dismay.

They steal our gold, then donate their last dime.

They heal our wounds and sustain our hearts as we die. 

They slap us down and raise us up.

‘Midst them we are builded.  Gilded.  Filled with holiness.  Given life.

------------------------------------------------------------(rhonda)

I Know They Never Once Thought About Me Sitting in Their Future

Rain hammers the metal roof of my porch.

Lightning arcs toward a nearby copse of trees

and thunder drums, shaking cars, setting off alarms.

Outside my humble shelter, grey squirrel

hangs motionless, upside-down on wet maple.

He blends perfectly with maple bark,

leaving me to wonder at the mimicry of nature

and the tenacity of small squirrels

hanging upside down on wet trees.

Sipping my tea I consider the native people,

                 the first people,

wondering what their homes looked like on this spot were I sit—

considering the warm drinks they sipped during storms such as this.

Sassafras?  Spruce needles?

Wondering if small children sat with a tent flap

open to rain and thunder, laughing and wondering

at the sight of grey squirrels hanging upside-down on trees.

-----------------------------------------------------------(rhonda)

In honor of today. Paul Simon's Wartime Prayer