BETTY GOES TO YOGA
He stood sentry on an island
between asphalt traffic lanes.
He had a chiseled nose and chin
his hair shoulder length.
In each hand, barbell bags
of groceries hung.
To be quite clear as I drove by
I imagined
us and ecstasized.
But now on my yoga mat
I stretch
breathe out and realize
breathe in
I am old enough
breathe out
to be his mother.
Some say:
gasp in, his
grandmother
A Northwest Winter’s Dream
I do not know how I arrived
on this mountain or where we are destined
but my car is filled with passengers.
On a red-soiled road, we climb
wheels spinning crushing rock. When we
reach the summit, the cliff edge beckons.
My car could sprout wings but I swerve
from ledge and air and wake up scared.
How mute, this day-break, how silent
this call to change my way on my distant
brother’s birthday. While trees pine
in greens and browns, the sky in empty gray
moon light shimmers through my bedroom’s shade
and I breathe in the awe of dawn.
WRITE YOUR POEM!
"I do not know how I arrived"
Do you notice the moment? Sometimes when we are crafting poems we become woodworkers gently revising and letting shavings fall to the floor over months and even years.
There is another element of poetry that honors the fragile moment of our lives. We write it down, just to have a flash of memory years later. In our ocean of images with cell phones we forget how fast things go by. We lose the precious sights and sounds that have been distilled into poems for years.
Distill your words. Cherish your life. Cherish your poems.
