We burn with joy (landays)

We are afraid, and we burn with joy

We sit in the dark, fingers flying over the keys

We etch a lightness out of the weight

The redbuds mock us gorgeously. The deer amble past

Humans hungry for a human touch

Days fall into heaps, weeks are too old to count clearly

Ask the questions! It’s now or never

What keeps you alive? What threads the hours from sleep to sleep?

How does it feel to be suspended?

Holding the world’s breath, how do you really feel today?

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the same dance

we are dancing the same dance, but at very different speeds me standing on Daddy’s feet, five years old, at the van Renterghems’ New Year’s Eve party (oh and the grownup tables at my eye height as I wandered the room, the pig with its frilly skirt and apple in its month, us miniature Baptists telling jokes about Catholics, what did we know) we are dancing the same dance, but to such different music you send me messages and there is never a ding or a buzz, just randomly later I glance over and there are your words, floating we are dancing such a different dance to this same old music will we ever find ourselves dancing it together? Marjy and me on our untrained tiptoes, fat Belgian lady at the piano, tiny Belgian girls in their bathing suits leaping across the floor Mommy and Ruthy and me in the living room, put your little foot , all of us on the cracked tennis court, square dances on records, Uncle Jerry shooing away the little kids, won’t you dance with m...

Small pleasures (landays)

There comes a time when the well rings dry When the mothers and fathers live in empty houses When the day turns an unseen color When the letters we send shred themselves to confetti There comes a day when the trees grow tired A time when my bones walk slower than my memory When the signs don’t know how to read me When the comfort I get comes from counting surely down There comes an hour when we just stop short When the world streams by in all its hot cacophony There comes a moment when all is well The pebbles are smooth, the babies are rolling fatly When the roar of the unthought, undone Lets through ribbons of song from the basements and attics

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...

All is burnt. We rebuild.

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