half unfurled

when the fourth grade girls all swarm in to hug me goodbye just as their teachers are shepherding them onto the bus home after lunch and
one of the girls who had been holding my hand the entire walk from the dining hall says she will never let go, but then she does, and they wave from the bus steps and wave from their bus seats and the engines start and we wave back from the driveway
until the bus pulls out and the wheels turn on the gravel and round a corner, and the trees with their pale green leaves wash them out of sight.

listening to nd practice the ukulele from his room
and kw sneeze from her
nook under the stairs
and hs out by the fire pit putting out the
last of the embers after his grilled steak dinner,
and the rest of them upstairs muffled laughing and moving
chairs, while i sit
still
on the couch near the front door, writing these words.

the cloudy chill that feels like spring is
momentarily
suspended in the half unfurled fiddleheads, and the unopened dandelions
and the one apple tree near the library with blossoms still clasped, hesitating to extend its petals to the world.

light at the back

when in the dream my sister disappears from the station and leaves without me for the train, and i am still at the ticket counter, emptying my pockets, scrambling for a photo id, and i can’t find my red backpack, no not that one, i say to the lady at the desk, almost in tears when she offers assistance, and then i am yelling
at everyone, and i am late,
for the train.

as many colors in spring as there are in fall, someone in the circle says and I find myself nodding, agreeing, especially aware of the reds and pinks and whites and greens and soft hues of colors i didn’t know were different from each other until they popped up side by side a few weeks ago.

sitting next to all the seedlings at the living room window before bedtime,
parsley
rainbow chard
mixed greens
pickling cucumbers
and
black plum
tomatoes,
talking to nd and kw about death and
dying,
feeling the tang of raspberry sorbet still on my tongue
and the intensity of the
overhead light at the
back of my eyeballs.

stuffed under

how I feel like i’m at the corner of may

how the leaves on the trees look like unfurling umbrellas,
or

like the wet wings of butterflies just after they leave the cocoon.

heavy.
(with possibility)

how my sense of smell is lost
for several days
stuffed under the couch of a cold
and I exuberantly (and perhaps deliriously) spread (way too much) thieves essential oil blend on the
bottoms of my feet
for the sake of immunity.

more than one or two people at the party ask surprised DO you smell that? what is that? when we walk into a room and i can’t help but
burst out laughing.

we weave and crash

arriving at a’s place after a winding drive of watching spring trees bloom, ready for a promised nettle harvest and whatever else we might come across, i find her in the woods looking for the perfect tree to set up her newly built
wood duck nesting
box.

after finding the perfect tree (a standing dead elm just at the edge of the pond) we weave and crash our way through the phragmites to balance the wood duck box against the tree trunk to
screw it in place.

i am covered in wood shavings (that we put inside the box as a nest filler) and it becomes apparent that the screws we have are just a little too small to hold up the (wood duck size) box high up on the tree. it (only sort of) falls on my head as i let go of it, and so we stop our endeavors to wait for
more appropriate hardware.

following a’s instructions on holding the edge of the nettle leaf while cutting the stem, my fingers don’t get stung for the first time when nettle collecting. see! she says smiling with a told-you-so inflection in her voice if we’re gentle with the nettle she’ll be gentle with us.

on the way to my car, hands full of said nettles (and some raspberry leaf forages) (and a couple of horseradish leaves) i run into r in the driveway. you went shopping? i ask to his hands full of grocery bags. yeah, post farm day shopping. he is wearing end of the day dirty clothes.
sheepishly, he holds up a bag so i can have a better look. i had to buy kale he says and we both laugh acknowledging the criminality of that act. as far as i’m concerned, he says spring could last forever, but we just need summer so that we don’t have to buy kale.

if we’re all willing

 

the way the peepers sound so loud as I drive by what must be a vernal pool on hamilton road with my windows down, and i can smell spring.

the moment in the Passover seder meal,
hosted two days early
for logistical convenience
in the house where I now
live, (and work) (in the woods with kids)
(the guests are sitting on cushions and couch arms and in armchairs)
in which I have a burning question,
and then allow myself to ask the room for a go-around,
if we’re all willing?

what if the story of slavery was actually ours to hold right here, right now?

then there’s the moment when we finish going around the circle of guests,
a word or two sharing our dreams/aims/aspirations for freedom.
breaking down our own kinds of personal slavery.
when i feel new warmth rising glowing surrounding my body
because there is a certain radiance to vulnerability
especially with a roomful of strangers.