Star magnolia,

weeping cherry,

yellow daffodils,

purple hyacinths,

flowering pear —

all opening this warm spring morning.

At school,

shorts,

warm smiles,

lip gloss,

early romance —

all in bloom,

blushing, bursting colors

of spring.

Books are always the answer.

The thundering herd

galloped by —

feet pounding,

shoes squeaking,

loud huffing

emanating

from the leaders.

If this were the Serengeti,

dust would billow

behind the massive group.

Instead,

shiny linoleum greets the pack

as they turn the corner —

only to sprint back,

lap after lap.

Is it safe

to leave my room?

Or will I be trampled

by the dedicated competitors,

each charging for superiority.

Oh no!

Ms. Sanderson,

I have to go home…

right now.

You don’t understand,

I left my book

at home.

I need to know

what happens.

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.”