![]()
New Poems![]()
Family Reunion
I want to pray, but the doors
to the gray stone church are locked.
Early morning and fog still
clinging to hilltops as if
something is hidden. But there
is a trail behind the church
calling me into the woods,
far from the sea, far from home.
It is cool and dark beneath
the dense trees, and the wind filled
with pine is slight but steady
against my skin. I make my way
along the path, past piles of stones
that might mean something to someone,
and occasional birches
standing alone. I am moving
into the future, but stumbling
through my past as I zigzag
up and down the maze of trails
carved into the place I come from.
Few birds and one startled doe
pass before me. I smile
at no one and let the joy
of this encounter fill me
like music, but no voices
or distant trains echo
in this hallowed wood. Absence
is the thing that calls us back
to places emptied of
everything but remembrance.
My father taught me to listen
for God in the silence
of the earth, unencumbered
and filling with light
This morning, the hornetās nest
hanging from a low beech branch,
where Maple Trail opens to
a logging road, could be a sign
of something ominous,
but there is a green stillness
brightening the air and church
bells chiming in the distance,
aunts and uncles walking
down the hotel stairs for breakfast,
cousins on the porch, waiting
for the sun, and plenty
of time to pray alone.
![]()
The Christmas Apron
Unfolding my grandmotherās apron, tucked
deep in a box of Christmas decorations,
I rub my hands across the wrinkled
cream colored cloth as thin as gauze
and the bright red and blue boxes circling
the hem and see her standing at the stove
wearing her Christmas apron, stirring pots
on every burner, a turkey already roasting
in the oven, plates of gingerbread men
cooling on the counter. Each one her own
creation. Dozens of cousins, aunts, and uncles
circle the kitchen table in a haze
of coffee, bacon, and cigarettes. Damp wool
hats and mittens steam on the radiator
beneath the kitchen windows thick with frost.
My grandfather hauls in wood in from the shed,
smelling of pipe smoke and peppermints,
shaking fresh snow from his plaid flannel sleeves.
Itās as if my childhood was inscribed
on this stained handful of cloth, scattered
with a celebration of ornaments
tied with green ribbon and a tiny tag pinned
at the waistbandāThis was Nanaās apron.
![]()
Corene
summer flowing like a song
only she can hear standing
in the tilting tall grass that is
singing also a woman holds
a blue polka dot sheet
overhead as if it is
a privilege to be standing
in an open field with wind
lifting her dress while she
dries baskets of clean laundry
beneath a sun filled sky
![]()
Easter Worry
This morning, the churchyard is covered
in a dusting of pollen as if a light snow
fell during the night, changing everything it touched.
And the world emerged thrumming and green.
Who knows what part the wind played or where
it comes from, how it swirls the bees into a lazy spin
above the garden and lifts the sparrows to their nest
on a window ledge beneath the eaves. The sky fills
with winged creatures, magnolia blossoms, sweet
notes of familiar hymns, and all the unutterable prayersā
for the child that never phones, the neighbor
with a spot on her lung, the father who cannot be pleased.
Much is said today about the meaning
of the mystery. I think of it as something
remembered then shared, like a small nest
holding everything we lov...
