Here it goes--a whole month of writing everyday. Here is another poem in process, currently untitled, that I wrote after reading "Heavy" by Mary Oliver.
The things of the world that are
kind and maybe also troubled:
A pond with wind whipping
the water into ripples.
Teenagers who love to
play Ping Pong
Poets--some of them.
My hands, dry and aging,
looking like my mother's hands.
My mother, who would have loved
Mary Oliver, who maybe did love
Mary Oliver before
she forgot the things she loved
and did not love.
My mother, whose easy tears spring
up in my eyes, who took people in to stay
in the not-so-spare bedroom, who slept in a fold-out
couch to make room.
My mother, who loved flowers and hands
in the dirt. Did she even
own gardening gloves? Who never painted
her nails or wore red lipstick
but still loved a flowered dress.
My mother, who loved me so much she
let me go.
For my own good.
For my good.