The Call of the Loon

Underneath the lush willow, oak, and maple,
Underneath the buck thorn and lilac bushes,
Underneath the ferns, and meadow rue, and hostas,
Stretch the manicured lawns, the paved sidewalks and streets.

Lawn mowers chug and sputter, while cars rush by.
Trucks give off their diesel smell as gears whine.
Dryer sheets, charcoal grills, and hot tar smells braid together
While basketballs thump above the noise of children playing.

Crows clatter high in the trees, laughing and scolding,
While lesser birds twitter nervously below them.
And somewhere, on a lake hidden behind houses
Is the unmistakable long treble of a single loon trilling.

And I wonder why here?  Why in the noise and clutter of the city?
Why is it not further north in a wild fir-fringed lake?
Where food is more plentiful, the lakes are quieter,
And the little loons can rest safely, riding on mama's back.

And then I wonder, maybe the loon is here in the city
To remind us that up north there are fir trees instead of paved roads,
The lakes are quieter than the diesel trucks and lawn mowers,
And we can rest safely with our family, those we love.

Walking with Grief

When I felt my mother's death rattle in my arms

It was long before I knew the word for it.

When her heart stopped beating,

It was before I knew how long ours would break.

When our throats were choked with grief,

It was before I knew how long it would take us to breathe.

But if I had not let Grief walk by my side,

I would not have been watching, listening...

I would have missed seeing my mother 

In the rocking chair at the Farm,

Legs crossed, crossword puzzle in her lap. 

I would have missed seeing her 

By the pool in her floppy hat,
 
Enjoying my daughters yet another year.
 
I would have missed her talking through me
 
To tell her favorite nephew,
 
Tom, it's me, TeeTee, it's okay to go.

It takes time to walk these places with Grief,
 
To have these conversations,

To accept his healing.

Water Colors

Minnesota, Minnehaha, Minnetonka,

Trickling, bubbling, roaring over river rocks

Washing, waving, crashing into shore.

It is the cadence of my life, it is

The music that never ceases in my head.

It is my guide and my sense of place.

I was born with it and will die with it.


Like a lover, I desire color

Of birds, of glass, of woven silks. 

I let colors seep in and out of me

As easily as my own breath.

I tremble, the hues of dusk teasing me

Moonlight brushing over my lips,

My fingertips, my soul.

Dig Deep

Dig deep into my heart
Excavate it, examine it.
Exhume who I am at heart.
Sift through my shifting sands,
These layers of light-heartedness.
Dig deeper, down to my
Time-compressed depressions.
Unearth the tombs I have
Buried to protect my secrets.

Sift the colors through your fingers
To find the brilliant hummingbird,
Whose jewels reflect my awe and joy.
Study all the birds as they fly.
To understand my love of the open road.

Dredge the water that bubbles up
To nourish the birch and aspen
That transport me to another place,
That bring me peace, and
Wash away waves of pain.

Excavate the roads I’ve traveled.
Survey the paths I’ve chosen,
Carefully guarded from view.
Uncover my reasons why,
Without judging my history.

Dig deep into the fragrance of night
Kissed by the moon that holds me
Envelopes me, transfigures me.
Unearth the darkness that I am,
That lives within and binds me.

Mine carefully around my family,
My mother and my daughters.
Irreplaceable treasures who
Have moved out of my daily life,
Leaving an abyss filled with echoes.

Tunnel, if you can, under bedrock
Til you find a vein of words
Leading to a lode of poetry, of music.
Undiscovered and never shared
For fear of exposing who I am.

Dig deep into my heart
Excavate it, examine it.
Exhume who I am at heart.
But do not break it in two.