Rather than leaves,

the sturdy poplar

was clothed in starlings.

Inky black birds

rested on the branches

like dabs of oil paint

on a stretched canvas.

As the late day sun

settled just above the horizon,

each bird’s coat

shimmered,

an iridescent rainbow

revealing the glory hidden

in even the noisiest bird.

“Why am I taking this test?”

Well,

the state wants to make sure

you have the writing skills

they require.

“What if they read

my searing memoir on loneliness,

or my ode to reunited friends

instead?”

“Oh! I know.

How about the state

reads my essay

on how to create

green spaces in our community?”

Sorry,

this is just about the data.

The dogs eyed me

suspiciously –

Coats?!

Really?!

Less than 48 hours ago

we were sunning ourselves

in the verdant grass.

I know,

my eyes answered,

but snow has fallen

and the temperature dropped.

Just then,

the open door

admitted a burst of 21* air.

The pups and I

locked eyes,

tightened our collars,

squared our chins

and ventured forth.

.

Poet Naomi Shahib Nye

spent years collecting

poems of loss.

Loss resonants.

I am quick to remember

the lost button,

favorite jacket,

childhood book.

These easy memories

block the door

in my mind’s eye

to larger losses —

loved ones,

innocence,

understanding.

Loss may be inevitable,

but,

no one every tells you

what to do

with the empty space

left behind.

For years,

I bought a fresh white tee shirt

and a pair of white keds

each summer.

Unboxing those sneakers

released summer scents,

sand from beach combing,

and the smoke from a campfire.

Members of my family can tell you,

white was not a good idea

for a messy girl like me.

So why the choice?

Truth is…

those fresh tees

and stiff sneakers

were a clean slate,

an act of hope.

I charged into the warm months

armed with the belief

that a few spills,

a few tears,

would not inflict irreparable harm

on my spirit.

Clean slates are a good thing…

We all need second chances.

I did not notice

I was speaking out loud in the store

until a woman piped up nearby,

“I am so glad to know

I am not the only one.”

For two years,

I confided in the teapot,

whispered to the night light,

told tales to the turntable.

Isolation offers quiet companions —

steadfast, listening,

welcoming.

A poem inspired by lines from Richard Jones’ poem White Towels

“telling the story of my life

to the clean white towels taken warm from the dryer.”

In 1985,

I visited the Soviet Union.

The Cold War nation possessed

most of the traits you read about —

strange clicks when picking up a phone,

tour guides employed by government agencies,

limited ability to explore,

regular searches of bags, and

randomized interviews during travel between cities.

A couple in our group went off one afternoon

to visit an old synagogue without permission.

When boarding the flight to leave the USSR,

the couple was pulled and interviewed for hours

while the rest of us waited and worried on the plane.

My family lost loved ones

in both Kyiv and Minsk

during World War II.

Visiting these cities felt sacred.

But, what I remember most was the people.

Warm, curious, kind.

I left Kyiv in awe

of the men, women and children.

Today I remain in awe

of the citizens of Ukraine

whose battle started centuries ago.

It is time the rest of us

stood up with them.

A light breeze

lifts the scent of wood smoke

on a gray December morning.

No one is out early

in the post-holiday winter.

The tendrils of smoke linger,

they have traveled far —

across years,

from the deep, soot-stained

fireplace of a lodge

by a glacial lake.

Snow drifted down that day

as we read in chairs by the hearth.

A steady supply of split logs

ensured a long respite.

When the warmth of the flames

overwhelmed,

we retired to a small balcony

with two chairs perched

above the frozen lake.

As my present-day heart squeezes,

this cherished memory

unfurls

on this quiet winter street,

blooming bright and warm.

Small lines cover the surface

of my sun-drenched hands.

A white chicken pox scar

has survived for fifty years.

Nails – short, neat, unadorned.

My hands have lived.

On my left hand,

on the second finger from the left,

rests a narrow, inexpensive golden band.

I love this circle of gold —

delicate beading so fine

it shimmers,

rings the edges of the band.

In my youth,

the simple golden ring

had companions —

an engagement ring

with three large, sparkling diamonds,

an anniversary band from Tiffanys,

wrapped round with diamonds.

But today,

on a warm afternoon

it is the slight gold band

that remains.

Love endures.

It does not need to be showy

or loud or possessive.

Love is best

when it is pure heart.

Love shines in the small moments,

in the gentle reminder

resting on the warm brown

of my strong hand.

No other flower

is quite the harbinger of spring

as the mighty crocus.

Standing just six inches tall,

these floral pioneers first appear

when the ground is still cold.

The brave buds open in vivid hues —

royal blue, lavender,

lemon yellow and

crisp white.

No sight is lovelier

than a hillside carpeted in crocuses,

an army of spring tiding.

While passersby don scarves and hats,

the jovial crocus

offers hope for warm days ahead.