For The Unsuspecting

Dear Readers, with Mother’s Day this past weekend I had planned to write a poem to my mom thanking her for all she has done raising myself and my siblings. But the poem that arrived on the page is very different. My stepfather, of seventeen years, passed away a year ago on May 9th. I have definitely been thinking of him as the anniversary approached and that inspired the following poem.

For The Unsuspecting

This poem can’t make the snow stop falling or take away the cold. It won’t warm your bed at night or make breakfast for you in the morning. This poem can’t change a tire, change the oil or replace a spark plug. It can’t find a new lover for you even if you stand under the Flower Moon and recite it three times backward. This poem cannot make the bed, wash your hair, sweep the floor or stir the soup. It won’t make the clouds cross the sky any faster or the night feel less dark.

This poem is a small engine that fails to start. It is broken, rusty, a piece of metal without any use. It doesn’t haul water. It doesn’t cut grass. What it does do, is shred itself beneath the yellow roses. It blends with the soil and rots away. When you think it has completely disappeared and left your life, it blooms on a sunny day in June.

A Mary Oliver Poem & More Street Art

another “gem” on the path this morning

I continue to find little treasures as I go out for my walks. This morning I came across this inspirational painted rock. We had a lovely sunny morning but unfortunately winter continues to be reluctant to let us go into spring. The forecast for more snow helped me choose the Mary Oliver poem I am sharing.

THE STORM (BEAR)

Now through the white orchard my little dog
          romps, breaking the new snow
          with wild feet.
Running here running there, excited,
          hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
          in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
          the pleasures of the body in this world.

Oh, I could not have said it better
          myself.

Brrr!

Close Up of Ice Crystals

It’s a frigid -26 Celsius with ice crystals in the air so I thought I would post a winter poem 🙂

Edward Gates
From: Heart’s Cupboard

the wind beats snow
against my house

threads hang from the coat of a man
filling the cracks in his home

last night a man with black hair
drank beer by the well house

he laughed through a crack in the door
I put more wood on the stove

I am warm leaning back
on the legs of his old chair