Aware of dull fatigue and worn sinew,
attempting to be grateful for what works,
I plan to walk today, collect the view
above me, and observe whatever lurks
amid the gardens. Maybe I’ll pass through
a scene that prompts a smile, one that perks
my stamina to prove that I’m not done.
At least, I’ll savor dogwoods in the sun.
Preemptively I took on yesterday
the work I would have put my back in now.
I thought that might enable me to play
more freely at today’s events. That’s how
I figured then, as if I could defray
backwards, like I’d the power to endow
improvement to a day that’s overbooked,
when perfect seldom answers how it looked.
I’ve walked this neighborhood near 20 years,
and here’s a tree that often grabs my gaze.
From autumn till past April it appears
well-shaped but maybe dead. Then lit with May’s
extended sunlight it sends blooming spears
of buds. Each spring I greet belated sprays
of green as they festoon the way it’s limbed
toward earth, but now I see my tree’s been trimmed.
Attending Friday services because
my daughter (middle-aged) has joined a shul,
eight times or so a year, I come to pause
and say Shema, remindful of a rule
or three I hadn’t heard as natural laws.
I slow and let my heritage unspool –
agnostically I even murmur prayer –
less avid, and mature enough to care.
The daily walks of Covid had no aim,
except to circulate without my walls.
Selecting a duration was the game,
and midway through I’d angle back to home.
I rarely had an errand I could claim,
but always knew when I was halfway through.
An exploration cannot be the same;
I can’t anticipate where effort calls
me. Middle’s somewhere near, without a name.
Commuting home last night, I saw the sign
reflected backwards in a window pane.
And I read “Bears” in every rounded line,
the B reversed but otherwise so plain
I couldn’t unsee it. “2169″
was nothing obvious – I can’t explain
why even after reading it direct,
the false made sense and begged me to reflect.
Last night he texted love to me alone.
Until then all the chats were seen by three.
He’s nine and really likes to use the phone
he got four months ago. Assuredly
the message lacks originality,
but I’ll take love with melting gratitude.
That’s why I save and savor, certainly,
emoji text that elevates my mood.
I had to fast to satisfy a lab.
Not even morning coffee was okay.
Accepting that (it’s rare), I didn’t crab;
I sipped hot water substitute today.
But leaving early was the harder play,
without the time to meditate or write.
I put good obligations on delay
that won’t proceed as fluidly tonight.
Before I saw the tassled multitude
I didn’t think about commencement rites.
When I matriculated, we eschewed
the pomp and photographs of branded sights.
But five and fifty years did not occlude
familiar passages and slanting lights
adjacent to the intersecting creek.
These acres answer any time I seek.
My parents used to scoff at Mother’s Day.
“A Hallmark-started holiday,” said Dad.
To Mom the date her mother died – dismay
and grief uniting always made her sad.
But I learn, from the way my kids convey
their love and gratitude. This year I had
their hugs and gifts and sweet calligraphy
on Saturday. Today is all for me.
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