one foot in this world

the magic of welcoming/acknowledging
the other people that aren’t people that are here with us too
(the floating cottonwood fluff, the gnats, the eagles across the river) –
how i always want to be in spaces/groups that do this
i’m here – now i’ve arrived alyson says
when i find her and we sing
in the big circle before dinner
someone chimes in and says weird is an ancient gaelic word
meaning one foot in this world
and one foot in the other
good where we’ve been good where we’re going to

i sing to/with kva
while the green car dusty with gravel roadness
and i hold her up

racing the light

two writers
doing math
that didn’t seem so complicated from a distance
but when we get right up to it
it takes a while
to find our way from
mystery to answer
 in fact, it might get worse keren says
we got you is the message
sent to an unruly neck and the image
is of a cave and keren pulling me along
both of us knowing that shit’s gonna get real/
get gritty down there
but we know we’re good for it
and it’s worthy
and we’re going in
you’re asking me to do what!? i exclaim outloud
to the gravel hill road rising high
ahead of us
as we pedal forward

jennifer and i take turns pulling each other along
the gravel drive and road
on a test ride

in the green mesh garden cart assembled by us
one and a half times
all in a days work:
the grub-hoeing,
the garden forking
the lowering of baby plants
into the ground and racing the light
as it fades
we walk away wealthy in
herb gardens and flowers

sweet and seriously iced

the pan full of sweet and seriously iced
cinnamon rolls that jen brings to the meeting
which i have to put in italics
because no part of being monologued at
for an hour and fifteen minutes
resembles any kind of meeting i’ve been to
in years
suck it up
lauren the six year old

on her small bike (off her small bike)
at the bottom of the gravel hill says
after getting up, her calves gravel-dusted,
her knees scraped
suck it up she says that’s what my dad tells me to do
and so she does


for bending and flexing

for bending and flexing with me i say
as a gratitude/appreciation
after we’ve clinked forks
and before we’ve dug in to dinner
the two butterflies,
both blue with black,
both obliterated in the gravel road
but partially alive
i pick up and set
in the roadside grass

remembering to slow

today, i bring water
and price tags
to the roses, to the lilacs, to the hollyhocks and the lilies
how the hummingbird dives in and out and back again
swoop down in
swoop down out
and again
and again
through the greenhouse back door
the hum/whir/zing of its body in flight
an unnameable sound
the amberish red-orange glow
of the red-tailed hawk
taking flight from some branch
mere feet from where i bike past
on the gravel shoulder of highway 14
remembering to slow
i ask to be shown
and ahead on the quiet side road i bike up
a wild turkey scuttles across
and up into the green and rocky hill
in the candlelight
spoon after spoon
we bring the soup in
to our open mouths

the gold light that comes after the rain
and the cloud doesn’t pass over us
it passes through

a small celebration

how many hours i go
bringing water to young growing things
paying so much attention looking down
that i forget to look up
into the wide sky and the great green of rising hills
around me
wherein kind things are said and
wherein i’m encouraged to not talk to co-workers
about how much they get paid
the christmas blanket
laid out on the lawn
on top of which we attach metal things to metal things
using nuts nad bolts and
this time we are lucky enough
to have access to a socket wrench
a small celebration for a great wonder:
the season’s first fireflies
gloing on-off in the sideyard
and up among the trees growing on the hille