THE SUN DREAMS IN THICK ROPES
In the false warmth of mid-winter
the firebox hisses & snaps—wet bay logs singing
to the ever-present odor of woodsmoke and
soot-covered walls.
Last rainstorm the roof leaked,
the ceiling lamp became a bowl of blue light
beautiful as the sky, but colder
like the jewels I found in sleep.
I want to open the front door,
last night’s dream unleashed the lions,
the door won’t close.
With her back to the stove, she sits, reading the
paper,
her white hair in random waves.
We have no words for the solitude of morning
or the repetitive spoon against the coffee mug.
The sink purps, an isolated drop of water catches
the room reflected upside-down.
I am groveling on the floor—
acute angles of wall and ceiling never squared.
I think of my mother off in the city;
how I love her so much it hurts
it takes me longer to recognize
my grandmother’s love,
the endurance of woodsmoke,
and childhood to carry me
through this morning
to where the unnamed father
is also a part of the equation of loss.
It takes me 40 years to recognize
that in the layering of years,
unbidden tears need an outlet
like water seeking its own level.
Precious water lost
during the drought years can never be replaced.
Ordinary loss prepares us for what is ordinary.
What sustains us is memory, something more profound
than the weight of time to hold us down,
the repetition of days carries us
into the uncertain present.
The regret, remorse—hard edges of words
cut us to the quick like a stubbed toe,
the pain made larger than life
because of the incipient cold
holding us back this winter morning.
1/16/94 Bishop Ranch, Healdsburg
I think these were from a CPITS AC retreat not Elderhostel
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