She’s got a lot of ground to cover
and you don’t have to cover it with her.
I can at least leave that door open, dwell in possibility.
As Pema says,
”Letting there be room for not knowing
is the most important thing of all.”
I stopped at number eleven
of the online survey:
When you’re at a cocktail party or social function, how do you answer the inevitable question: “So, what do YOU do?”
Why not the inevitable question, “So, who are you?”
Writer, lover, lesbian, hot-shit sassafras, red-hot saffron
depression-prone driveway-shoveler nose-wiper…
Or maybe I should say answer,
“I’m in like flint”–
what Frank the old-timer next door
told me yesterday with a wink
when he pointed out that
the only other guy out shoveling
was Kevin, the County Sheriff.
There we were, the three of us,
me, Frank, and the Sheriff heaving
mounds of ice from the ground.
She’s got a lot of ground to cover.
I kept thinking, this is what it must feel like
to dig a grave.
But why that thought, I couldn’t say.
Then an old friend poured me a glass of white wine
served a bowl of made-with-love chicken curry,
su casa es mi casa.
I drove back here almost enjoying
the slippery ride,
noticed the plaque on the front porch,
esta is su casa.
Home is wherever you are.
Wicked headache, nine hours sleep,
woke to Adrienne Rich
and bolted out of bed–
clothes, coffee, notebook, pen.
Quiet rush of morning words
after the blizzard,
the warnings for which didn’t even come close
to the reality of the storm.
Streetlights flicker off one by one
in their own timing,
my little girl calls poised
to board the puddle jumper.
She’s coming home today and so am I.
The doors now open,
now swinging shut, keys turning, hearts beating,
in the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.