Nothing I’ve done seems to matter…I wanted to do more
in this life, not the elusive prizes, but poems that astonish.
— Barbara Crooker, from “Melancholia”
Who else would have celebrated oxygen cascading
down our throats when speaking about the glories
of breath, or called on God of the ginkgo trees and God
of the red oaks to send her a heart of gratitude
for her birthday? Cézanne would be smiling to know
his sprouting onions were called Green flames singing
in the hearth. She not only pays homage to grass blades,
wisteria vines, nights obsidian wing, but she praises
what comes from dirt, and I say all of it, praise stem
root, grub. When I see wild geese winging their way
to the creek, her words come to me, squawking, flapping
their rusty hinges until sweet forgetfulness takes me
Yes, it takes me at the hour of lemon light. I see
forsythia wands shooting sparks over the new grass
each spring before the moon floats up into its chalice
of bone. I had forgotten sailing that cobalt river
scissored with sailboats when the day unwrapped
itself like an unexpected gift, until she reminded me.
At times, days melt here, too, like a pool of mint chip
ice cream, and other days have felt as if I’ve swallowed
an egg whole like a black snake. She says it all can be
reduced to love or loss, even when the air is so sugary
it makes your teeth ache, especially when grief has strung
me out to dry, but today my garden is overrun with knockout roses,
insects doing what they must, and fragile wings hum the air.
I will listen to the pear tree’s litany of blooms like a psalm.
