Too Heavy for Birds

 There are birds outside 
in the blue sky. There are birds
on the ground.

Juncos, warblers, sparrows, 
finches, nuthatches, chickadees.
The solemn birds of winter,
the wings of beauty to the sky.

Shouldn't my thoughts go with them?
Let them carry away my heart?
But my heart is with strangers--

a nineteen-year-old organ donor,
twin toddlers looking up through water,
an eleven-year-old slipping quietly
into cold, eternal sleep.

My heart has cause for joy
but chooses grief--
not virtuous, only confused--
and much too heavy for birds.

Sorrow is the only thing

Sorrow is the only thing
that does not thin when spread.
It doesn't disperse in coffee.
It doesn't dilute in drink.

Sorrow is the only thing
that has gravity but
no sure footing,
truth but no freedom,
solemnity without dignity.

Sorrow holds space
but no breathing room.

It is blinding dark,
a keening silence,
a mute wail.

Sorrow is the only thing
it's better to receive than give.

The only burden not lightened
by sharing.

Sorrow is the only thing
in which even together,
we are the only one.

The Questions

How many times in a life 
do we think, 
I never wanted to live through this...

Mother faces the mourning
of the living.
My Angel, she says
my Angel's flame has turned to inferno.
It has not been this bad in years.
How can I go through this again?

I never 
wanted to live through this...

The Angel, himself caught 

on the cusp of rage
and despair, How can I walk
this world of wrongs and worthless
words? The only choices doomed 
creation or damned 
destruction, forced to walk 
either alone or encumbered...

I never wanted to live 
through this...

The tableau grows. 
Many mothers
in abject silence, a school
surrounded, asking,
Our angels, our demons, who
will survive this day? Flames
to light the world or

to incinerate,
our children we love the same.

I never wanted to live through
this...

Time and place expand. Towers burn. 

Mothers mourn. Lights go out. 

Mothers burn. Infernos tower.

Angels are blackened,

demons enflamed. 

Who will survive this day? 
How can we go through this again?

I
never wanted to live through this.

The world burns. 
Sparks singe our lungs. 
Flames ignite our hearts. 
What has kindled in this world?

It has not been this bad in decades.
What separates angels from demons?

How can we go through this again and again?
Who will survive our love?

I never wanted to
live through this.

Somehow, we find ourselves angels.

Somehow we shine 

to light the way through this.

I Think Of You

-for Beth

I think of you,

the birthday card said.

If only you knew how much I think

of you.

How nice, I think. 

Nice to be thought of

but how I wish those thoughts

in autumn could be 

the odd warm days

or the tiny, 

momentary rainbows

dewdrops make

of morning sun.

In winter, I'd like them to be

the scent of cedar and 

cinnamon or

bright winter cardinal red.

If only they were birds singing just 

out of sight in the leaves

and blossoms of spring.

In summer, maybe

the taste of 

honey-sweetened lemonade

or dandelions to pop 

up in my grass.

I think of you often,

your handwriting said,

and script can

be warm and radiant

for a moment

but how I wish I got to 

keep those thoughts 

all around me

to be the beauty of passing

years.

Intuit

the trees 

outside my window

don't change

but they move 

in the winds that 

move 

but don't change

the sky

immovable

infinitely changeable

and infinite 

even my 

finite window

intuit

the winds of change

move the

unmovable

sky and that

changeable forest

of the trees

and me

But Tomorrow Will Be

Today was not a good day
but tomorrow will be.
Today sorrow was a gravitational force
and I couldn't get up
and communication was satellite static
and I couldn't make sense
and necessity was a black hole
consuming time, patience, and gentleness.
Today was not a good day
but tomorrow will be.

This week was not a good week
but next week will be.
This week plans were leaves in a tornado
and I couldn't put them in order
and intentions were a hailstorm
leaving dents on every surface
and progress was rain in a desert
that never reaches the ground.
This week was not a good week
but next week will be.

This month has not been a good month
but next month will be.
This month change was an avalanche
with threat and mitigation racing each other downhill
and facts were a thunderstorm
racing through too fast to nourish hope
and freedom was an elusive flower
that if too prized becomes an invasive species.
This month has not been a good month
but next month will be.

This year so far has not been a good year
but I am sure it still will be
because the future is unseeded
and we are the sowers
and the stores may be depleted
but we are the growers
and fears must go unheeded
because we have the power
to make of the coming year
all the good that it will be.

Today was not a good day.
But tomorrow will be.

tiny, mighty things

the planet teems with tiny, mighty things:
viruses like supernovas
that burn through the branches of our lungs

and tears like rain
made of fear that salts the fields
of everything we thought was certain

but also, voices--voices of birds
in silent cities, inspiring neighbors
to sing to each other from their perches

and yes, prayers
ascending from far flung hearts
in silent mighty chorus

and sacrifices because
finally we have remembered how precious
and fragile are our elders

and love,
in jokes, and check-ins,
and pictures, and videos,

and donations, and solutions
and differences set aside
in the recognition that human beings

are tiny, mighty things
with which our planet teems