Poetry writing begins soon
for my students.
I hope they learn —
poetry is in the air
around them.

Poetry lives in the flowers
and trees that surround them.
Poetry is found on the breath —
in and out
in and out.

Poetry will flow
from their pens,
pencils,
voices
and hearts.

Frankly,
poetry is accessible to all…
if we just stop long enough
to look up.

When I was young,
I created worlds
from acorn tops,
bits of moss,
flower petals and
pine boughs
gathered on walks
in the woods
with my grandmother.

I imagined mice
and wee nuthatches
visiting beneath towering tulips.

Just this morning,
I picked up
a plump pine cone,
the color of Sierra Redwoods,
to add to a montage
growing on the fireplace mantle.
A piece of driftwood and
two small grape hyacinths
add color, texture to the arrangement,
just waiting for the mice friends
of my youth.

While visiting my grandmother
at age seven,
my father and I wandered
onto the large Santa Monica Pier
in the late afternoon.

A small store
half way down the pier
offered cases full
of tiny handblown glass animals.

Rays of sunlight glinted,
turning the room
into a kaleidoscope unlike anything
my young eyes had ever seen.
I begged for one or two treasures.

Back home,
I carefully packed
the unicorn, elephant and tiny giraffe
in cotton,
then tissue paper
before loading them gently
into my small backpack.

The hardtop playground
at my elementary school
was a sea of inky black asphalt,
dark and unforgiving.

As an adult,
I can look back knowing
Tommy D. had no ill intent
when he grabbed for
the gentle giraffe.
But,
the result was the same…
shards of glistening glass
studded the blacktop
like diamonds in the rough.

Across the street
a new set
of brightly painted swings
beckons.

For the young,
swings are a chance
to soar high above
the everyday.

For teens,
swings are a spot
to meet at dusk,
dragging feet in the dirt
while talking about
anything, everything.
Twisting the chains
in slow circles,
before unwinding
to start again.

For adults,
swings are nostalgia.
It is as an adult
we realize
swings are
so much more than swings.

*I read the novella Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto. This story of belonging, loss and love reminds me to consider my spaces.

Light floods in
from the large window
over the kitchen sink.
A deep, white porcelain,
the sink anchors this kitchen.

Water fills pots,
feeds plants,
cleanses the day.

A pale celery green
coats the walls,
tall, white cabinets
store matched dishes,
assorted glasses
and mugs —
each embossed
with a memory.

Stainless steel
hums
from the side-by-side refrigerator
to the stove,
coffeemaker,
toaster —
everything in its place.

Four square plates
hang inches apart
in a row
above the sink.
A golden green pear
graces the first plant
and each subsequent plate
loses a bit more of the pear
until only the seeds
remain,
ready to plant the beginnings
of a new feast
in this quiet kitchen.

*inspired by Georgia Heard’s poem of the same title

When my son was little,
he held my hand
to cross the street.

He needed a hand
on the back of the bike seat
when the training wheels came off.

So,
the day my son
crossed the street
to enter his college dorm,
my chest squeezed,
my heart skipped a beat.

Now,
my son is getting married ,
talking of kids
he will have someday.

No matter
how strong
a guide you are —
children leave.

And you,
go on working,
moving,
living,
loving,
every day —
even without them.

“Can you please pass the cream?”

Cousins sit
interspersed with siblings,
parents,
children,
new in-laws.

Like a collage,
conversations overlap —
cities,
decades,
generations.

Mixing memory
and laughter,
storytelling reigns.

“Do you need sugar too?”

When I was young
and creating the requisite diorama
for school,
I took large cotton balls,
stretching them
until the taught strands
made a diaphanous layer of clouds
to sit atop
a cobalt blue
construction paper sky.

Last night,
my husband and I
stood outside
in the balmy aftermath
of a spring storm,
gazing up
as wispy clouds
raced by,
trying mightily to catch up
to the storm raging ahead.

These thin gauzy clouds
reflected the light
from the city across the river.
Puffy and white
cottony and soft,
transcending time.

Heading out the door,
I struggled with a backpack strap.
So,
it was with great surprise
that I lifted my head
to see a young fox
standing still on the opposite sidewalk.

He eyed me curiously,
this young auburn beauty.
He wore his youth well —
lean haunches, big expressive eyes,
a tail not quite as long
as his elders.

I often see foxes
on my early morning walks.
They dart across darkened streets,
caught momentarily
in the pool of a streetlight
as they head home.

But this young fox
paused as if in greeting.

Suddenly,
the gray cloud cover,
gentle rain shower,
and long day ahead
vanished.

It was just me
and the fox
welcoming the new day together.

I have always been a bit claustrophobic.

Crowded subways,
cramped clubs,
congested thoroughfares,
all call for escape.

On planes I prefer the aisle.
At rush hour —
I would rather walk.
In any room,
I gravitate toward daylight.

But,
since the pandemic…

a window is more,
so much more.

No matter the temperature,
my first act
is to throw open the window.

Brisk morning air
inflates my lungs,
clears my head,
and offers grace.

In fact,
I am convinced
there is no greater glory
than opening all the windows,
and letting the world in.