And what if, in the end, you lost it all?In the poorly timed decision,the negligent hurry,in missing the moment for the undoing click?What if, in a swift dazzle of technology, allyour acts and monuments fell down a drainnever to be found or known again? Would you, then, wake up at sunriseto find that, in spiteContinue reading “After Losing”
You create and give; I take and arrange words like atoms, rhythms like pulses and the matter of your cosmos like the setting of a table: an act of grace here, a wilderness feast. You create and I, created, imitate. More, I steward the tones you have embedded in our movements, our speech. I listenContinue reading “Poema”
and I nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, for I was not, nor have ever been, Catholic. How then, I wondered, was my reading taste catholic? The word, at the time, meant Mary and popes, not expansive, far-reaching, inclusive. Now I give my old teacher’s words new meaning: yes, catholic in reading, inContinue reading ““A catholic taste,” she said”
Today would have been the 95th birthday of my maternal grandfather who passed away nearly nine years ago: a man who influenced me and my writing more than one poem can express. Still, I couldn’t let the day pass without acknowledging it in some way, especially while I’m in the midst of writing about myContinue reading “Birthday Song (Apologies to Sylvia Plath)”
Stuck in horrendous traffic on the way to work yesterday, I began to reflect on the irony that, as someone who spends most of my life talking about reading and writing, I have remarkably little time to read or write. This is what those thoughts generated.
Fig Season? The garden holds promises, and I visit them daily: minuscule at first, fluffy, unsure, like hesitant children, awaiting the world. This is not quite their season: the Rabbi knew as much, yet visited expectant nonetheless. And, as frost and dew recede, there they are, peeping and proffering garden-bound joy. Too early toContinue reading “New Season”