Friday, March 1st

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.