The kids will eat the vegetables I cut,
and fruits that I arrange in patterns neat,
mandalas where there’s care how things abut.
The kids will eat.
I mimic chalked-in pictures from the street,
selecting foods to satisfy the gut
and sight, as well as taste. The task is sweet.
Embellishing with pumpkin seed or nut,
the project is as pleasant as it’s meet.
No candy now: the produce here is what
the kids will eat.
It took 3 days at home for me to rest.
The punch lists have been checked and tossed away.
Some tasks remain, it has to be confessed,
but there’s a clearance present for today.
And though I’ll have to shop and then to pay
for gifts December ransoms every year,
I’ve time this afternoon to change array,
and wrap myself in flannel atmosphere.
I walked to BART the long way yesterday.
I thought I’d stop and purchase something good.
The market had low stock, but anyway
I sampled senses in the neighborhood.
The turning leaves against blue sky held sway;
I photographed that color where I stood.
Far tastier than crackers would have been,
I filled my lungs with Autumn oxygen.
I chose the practice titled “Slow Your Roll.”
It begged just 16 minutes from my clock,
and slowly then I reassumed control
of seconds, as I stretched in taking stock
of ligament and tendon, palm and sole,
my skeleton relearning to unlock.
That carpet time promoted sweet relief,
and like these lines the exercise was brief.
The spirit of the covenant is neat,
though letters in the ancient text are stern.
It’s mindfulness that’s sought, in a complete
departure from the daily grind: to learn,
to think, to contemplate, to burn
the other end of candlelight, ablaze
with comprehension, and return
with fresh perspective for the coming days.
An edge of irritation’s lurking now.
Perhaps I’ve been too patient recently.
Six days away, among those I allow
a lot of latitude, my energy
invested in attending carefully
to people passionate and needing more
than effort earns or luck bestows. I see
500 miles ahead my own front door.
En route to home, I wonder what I’ll find.
Will bins have been retrieved and hose returned?
Will he I hired have begun defined
procedures to restore what I have learned
needs fixing or replacement, now consigned
to expertise I lack? Sure I’m concerned,
but nothing so disruptive will there be,
to steal home benefits away from me.
In Portland on a Saturday, there’s time
to settle into longer yoga, for
there aren’t California kids to climb
on me with energy and love galore.
Away from home and every daily chore,
around my oldest (for the day unwired),
there’s leisure to enjoy positions more,
and re-deploy techniques to feel inspired.
I miss my chrysalis, she seemed to say,
retreating to her room or deeper yet,
into her closet-bed, to spend the day
(again) with all the comfort she can get.
This person not a child, not adult,
no longer male but neither female yet,
awaiting pharmaceutical result,
appareled for concealment sensing threat,
needs something other than provided now
and then, when symptoms rose that were ignored.
Evaluation may have shown some how
to nurture and impel the child toward
trajectory appropriate and fine,
instead of sneaking comfort food and wine.
Embracing inconvenience as a mode
of transiting life’s paths and avenues
is nothing popular, but paves a road
with vignettes I would never think to choose.
In truth it isn’t work I would unload
but daily grinding, which produces blues.
It’s said a woman’s work is never done –
it’s seldom challenging and rarely fun.
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