Pinecones in the Grass

We live among giants

Standing tall
heads up
between the clouds
giants on the land
walk among us

Poets, far-sighted
taking in experience
and alchemically
somewhat later
turning it into golden phrases
platinum syntax, glittering
diamonds of phrase and feeling

Dancers, shopping in the aisles
but full with grace, rhythm
powerful movement
ready at any time
to explode, into canon
and tour jeté
(stand back)

and everywhere, mothers
carrying expansive hearts
capable of enormous
sacrifice, compassion
unending dedication
mountainous reservoirs
of love, flowing forever
to fill their growing child

And somewhere, an artist
quietly daubing, color on color
a silent symphony
in the making
God herself, flowing
from a deep heart
into physical manifestation:
an epiphany.

We may not always see them,
so big, so grand,
but they are part of all
that lifts, and exalts
this life, this planet.

To start with, hello
But lets not, for now
Talk names and places

Starts and stops
Where and why this
Or that happened.

Lets just be here, together
Im sitting quietly
Maybe you are too

Can you find a space
Between thoughts?

Maybe, in that space
you and I
Are not so different

maybe our differences
Are not what make us
Interesting

But all of the times between
Specifics, when we were
And still are
one.

Its wednesday night
And Risë
Is talking to her brother.
I’m on the patio
With dinner.

The eight foot high corn
Creates as if a rural estate
On three sides,
And a neglected road
Is occasionally travelled
To the West.

The air, a bit muggy,
But it’s good -
Sneezing into
Farmer hankies
Has kept me in all day.

First, a single butterfly
Travelled by the bird feeder.
Then a bunny came out,
Stage right
One eye alert
While nibbling, nose down,
For the feline lord
Of the acreage.

Twenty feet away,
A single deer comes onstage
And then stands
Intently watching
The diner,

And then walks away
unconcerned and is now
Making ripping sounds
As he eats corn leaves
Behind a lilac bush.

And here he is,
Teddy, on cue
Wondering if
Anything that I’m eating
Could be sniffed and shared.

Today we shopped
At three stores
Only 30 miles
From Canada
We had the scent
Of a pink sweet pea
While visiting Margaret
But the highlight
Was the gift
From a six year old
Ballet dancer
Granddaughter
Of a hand-picked
Strawberry

The lovely shiva moon
Shaped like a lit smile
Was stuck in black
Winter branches
In our yard
This morning

Fortunately, even though
The light open smile
Was touched by
The delicate
Dark fingers of
Our maple tree

It wasn’t stopped
At all, all moved on
Freeing the world
From a thousand
Mile per hour
Instant stop
Mile high tsunamis
Sweeping eastward
And many other
Deeply concerning
Events

At this point
I just want to be
In love

At this point
When I see someone
Who is black, female
Undocumented, gay
Transgendered
Gender neutral
Democratic or
Republic oriented
Farmer or super wealthy
Iowa Hawkeye or Cyclone
Russian or Ukrainian
Muslim, Hindu or Christian
Atheist or not
Lost or found

I just want to be
In love
Radiating love

I want everyone to prosper
Be safe, find growth, achieve
Freedom and enlightenment

Im not idealistic, so much

Just reminding all
Of where I want to be
Where I thought we might have been, by now

And where we can be
If and when we want it
And believe it, together

Just us
In Being,
In the Love,
Together

-p

Steps, spent lavishly
In playground games
Skipping down the hall
Between classes
In scattered hundreds
Jogging, cross country runs
Tennis matches, sprinting
Down the block, or just
A leisurely walk
Through the park

Now, seventy plus,
Walking the steps
To the mailbox and back
Friends, parents and
Several siblings gone
Steps no longer
Seem infinite
And spending them
One by one
Is more deliberate
Noticed, and
Appreciated.

I see you there, walking alone
I acknowledge you, I wave
Maybe you wonder
Who is that

But still, on your way
To the store for a snack
Or to work
You are seen
You are not alone

Lets consider
The miracle of you
Billions of capillaries
A hundred thousand
miles of nerves
A heart, patiently beating
The soft intake and outflow of breath
The swing of one leg
And then the next
In your walk
Never falling

You the older version
Of some mothers
Birth of hope

You are not alone
I see you
I acknowledge you
I wave

Yes it has been said
But it is still true
Love is in the air

And here you are
Walking through it
Breathing it
Let it fill you
Let it hold you

In fact, you are the love
You have love
Maybe deep inside,
But if you sit, and look
In quiet, and wait a while,
You will find a single candle
And the light of that candle
You can let it grow, bigger
Start to fill you, heal you
Make your inner world over
In the full daylight
Of love

And then when your inner light meets the love in the air
Right there
At the junction point
Of your skin

You are not alone
You are all one

And I see you
I acknowledge the
Big, beautiful, miraculous
Love that is you
And I wave.

yesterday,
looking closely
at the Southwest walnut
there were tiny
leaves of lichen
in a grey green
set among, and over
bright green tree moss
coloring the rough bark

and then today
I sat alone, with soup
at the wooden table
and there was ketchup
from a company
that has been making it
from red ripe tomatoes
for 143 years.

On my windowsill
looking out over a prairie reserve
of long grasses and yellow flowers,
there is a photograph of my mother
with her smiling infant child,
my brother Arden, both of them
now gone.

If she were here she would see
her young and beautiful face,
her hair, styled for 1942,
and her right arm would have memory
of that little boy, held close.

Then, looking out of the window
with me, she would see
the birds on telephone wires
and ask “Can you make sure
to fill the bird feeder
all Winter?”

Ages seven, eight or nine
After the long drive to Stoughton
Parents talking to brothers and sisters
and the rest of us meeting cousins
And playing in their world,
touring the chicken hatchery
Swimming in Lake Kegonsa
Or hanging over the Yahara river footbridge
On a hot day, throwing sticks into the water

That was the ideal time for cousins
Other children of Norwegian ancestry
With our little rounded noses
And fondness for sugar-filled lefse,
The jule kage, the berliner kranser

Karen, tall and beautiful
Margi, perky and playful,
David, eyes twinkling,
Naomi, soft and loving,
Sara, a spark of sunlight
Danny, all dimples and laughter
Bruce with his cartoon nickname
And John, close to me in age
my guide to all things playful
In the neighborhood.

All this in memory
68 years later
At the Syttende Mai Memorial
For John, long gone from contact
Sara there, now filled with
Mountains and stars
Brow in a whirl of friends and connections
Danny now retired, recovering from a fall
But with a hint of sparkle in that smile
Karen, somewhat less tall
Than she was to a six year old, but still lovely,
And David, the remaining patriarch
Looking out over the remains of a family
That once boasted
A Marine airline pilot out country western dancing
A high school choral director
An daycare center manager
A tennis coach and his poetic wife
Singers, dancers, painters, farmers,
Owners of a 24 hour restaurant
And the founder of the local chapter of
Sons of Norway.

Almost all of that generation gone
Cousins all that are left
and the ones in California that we never met
Who, from those days in the late 1950’s
All wandered their way
Into schools, colleges, marriages and careers
Lost to each other, mostly
But on some level, still connected,
still loved, and carrying on
The original experiment
Of a family whose parents
set off from Norway, long ago.

The morning rush included a banana
and then a protein shake in the car
After addressing nine padded envelopes
To send books to co-authors,
A conflict of appointments discussion,
Brushing off the red clay off
Of my tennis shoes, and then barely
Making it to Lane’s on time for our 9 am,
And now,
silent waiting
in her driveway,
As, in slow,
unpredictable increments
Single raindrops hit
The roof of the car
overhead.

If you know me, then let this be my thank you:

For sitting in 4th grade with me
While Miss Holmberg
Read Little House on the Prairie

For picking up tennis balls between lessons at the Wakonda club 

For gathering in Vietnam  protest on the University of Iowa Pentacrest

For meditating for inner
And outer peace
In the domes in Fairfield, Iowa
At ten below

For dancing with me
Or near me
Or just in the area,
Disco Inferno
On the speakers.

For hugging, kissing
Or marrying me,
Whatever happened,
We had our moments.

For just being
In this town with me,
Sharing these days
Months, and years
Of Iowa weather.

And if you don’t know me
This is my hello
And my thanks
For sharing this time,
This season, this planet,
this air we are all breathing, together.

One more of my dear ones
Has departed
Into the mystery.

It's so odd that
At one point you are twenty two
And you surge forward,
to be and to do

And that is the broad passage
For many leagues

But then there’s this phase
Where you are no longer
At the front of the boat
Or even the middle
And, standing at the sternpost
only you and a few others
Are there to watch what were once
Central players in our world
Drift into the wake.

Thanks be to them.

Many of them drift off
Unheard, unseen, quietly 
Getting the diagnosis, 
The maybe this will work therapies
Only in the end to show up
Without a word
In someone’s facebook post farewell.

Mary Martha!
I never got to tell you
Thanks for your kindly smile
That soothing voice
Your sparkle.

And you, too, reading this
Whether you or I
Drift off first, please take with you
My dearly and deeply wished
Thanks for this, the blessing
Of our travels on this ocean, in this time, together.

It’s so odd
To think that
You are just a memory
Here on earth

So odd that only I
And a few others
Can recall your smile,

Your way with oatmeal
 Raisin cookies
And homemade bread

Now no one can see
Your faraway look
Your quiet gaze
At the backyard

That later will probably emerge
As a hand scrawled poem

Only to be someday
filed away, in an old copy
Of Reader’s Digest

Little or nothing
Will they ever know
Of your deep eyed concern
For the lost and forgotten

Or the forever home of
love and peace
For this child
Held in even one
Of your mother hugs

Close to the heart
Against a 1950’s
Patterned cotton apron