I Tell You by Susan Glassmeyer

I could not predict the fullness
of the day. How it was enough
to stand alone without help
in the green yard at dawn.

How two geese would spin out
of the ochre sun opening my spine,
curling my head up to the sky
in an arc I took for granted.

And the lilac bush by the red
brick wall flooding the air
with its purple weight of beauty?
How it made my body swoon,

brought my arms to reach for it
without even thinking.

*
In class today a Dutch woman split
in two by a stroke – one branch
of her body a petrified silence,
walked leaning on her husband

to the treatment table while we
the unimpaired looked on with envy.
How he dignified her wobble,
beheld her deformation, untied her

shoe, removed the brace that stakes
her weaknesses. How he cradled
her down in his arms to the table
smoothing her hair as if they were

alone in their bed. I tell you –
his smile would have made you weep.

*
At twilight I visit my garden
where the peonies are about to burst.

Some days there will be more
flowers than the vase can hold.

I Tell You

Ever since I first read this poem, it has lingered and raised its head in moments of deep gratitude. Like Sunday morning as I sat on my deck with a coffee, my bowl of mangoes and raspberries, a gorgeous display of peonies at the back of the yard, pale pink against the dark green.

The poet describes the fullness of the day – how it was enough to stand alone without help, how she looked up to the sky in an arc I took for granted, how her arms reached for the lilacs without even thinking. All the ways our bodies move us through the day.

Then in the next stanza, in what initially seems an unrelated theme, she describes a woman split / in two by a stroke – one branch / of her body a petrified silence, supported by her husband. How this man dignified her wobble, / beheld her deformation…How he cradled her down in his arms. She illustrates his behaviour with the compelling statement his smile would have made you weep. You realize that her impairment did not compromise his love for her.

The final stanza brings us back to her garden, and me to mine, where the last line says volumes when you see the two previous ones brought together. Some days there will be more / flowers than the vase can hold. I tell you, I tell you, how can we not see our abundance, our good fortune, the fullness of the day, when we stop to consider what we already have.

May your days be filled with more flowers than the vase can hold.

In the Middle by Barbara Crooker

of a life that’s as complicated as everyone else’s,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather’s
has stopped at 9:20; we haven’t had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don’t ring. One day you look out the window,
green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning’s quick coffee
and evening’s slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail is a metronome, 3/4 time. We’ll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.

In the Middle

In the middle of a life, time often seems elusive, inadequate, never quite enough. It goes by so quickly except for those long ago days as children when summer holidays seemed forever. Now our responsibilities seem to devour more time than we care to surrender, always wishing for more.

The poet speaks of a life that’s as complicated as everyone else’s, that struggle for balance that we have optimistically dubbed ‘work-life balance’. She describes how the seasons flow one into the next, how our children evolve from infants to adults, our own parents gone from us, all of this, it feels, in a blink of an eye.

Each day, we must learn / again how to love she reminds us. This we must take the time to do, in the many small and endless ways we are given. Time is always ahead of us, hurrying us into the future. But then, sometimes we take off our watches, stop measuring the minutes, lie in the hammock, that quintessential icon of timelessness. And in those moments, we are suspended, tangled up / in love, running out of time.

Those are the important moments, when we pause in our mad rush toward who-knows-what, when we let time run ahead without us and just be present to who and what we love. What a gift that is, even if only for a moment.

I’ve always love the turn-around ‘so much time, so little to do’. Even when it doesn’t feel true, it makes me smile, gives me pause, time enough to be tangled up in love.

Blackbirds by Julie Cadwallader-Staub

I am 52 years old, and have spent
truly the better part
of my life out-of-doors
but yesterday I heard a new sound above my head
a rustling, ruffling quietness in the spring air

and when I turned my face upward
I saw a flock of blackbirds
rounding a curve I didn’t know was there
and the sound was simply all those wings
just feathers against air, against gravity
and such a beautiful winning
the whole flock taking a long, wide turn
as if of one body and one mind.

How do they do that?

Oh if we lived only in human society
with its cruelty and fear
its apathy and exhaustion
what a puny existence that would be

but instead we live and move and have our being
here, in this curving and soaring world
so that when, every now and then, mercy and tenderness triumph in our lives
and when, even more rarely, we manage to unite and move together
toward a common good,

we can think to ourselves:

ah yes, this is how it’s meant to be.

Blackbirds

I’m always taken by a poem that seems to speak directly to my experience of the moment we are all in together. This is one of those poems.

The imagery in these first two stanzas clearly brings to mind what I have only seen videos of – a murmuration of birds moving as one. She introduces us to the sound, a rustling, ruffling quietness in the spring air – can’t you just hear that? Then there is the visual picture of all these blackbirds rounding a curve I didn’t know was there… the whole flock taking a long, wide turn / as if of one body and one mind. I, too, have had that very same thought: how do they do that? A beautiful mystery.

Now she skillfully slides us into the realm of human society saying what a puny existence if we were only to live with its cruelty and fear / its apathy and exhaustion. But instead. Instead we live in this curving and soaring world where sometimes mercy and tenderness triumph, sometimes we even manage to unite and move together / toward a common good.

Is this not what we have witnessed these past two weeks in particular – the terrible cruelty and fear, followed by human beings moving together as one in this curving and soaring world to create a common good. So yes, I believe we can say to ourselves, ah yes, this is how it’s meant to be.

May all beings move together toward a common good.

A Small Needful Fact by Ross Gay

Is that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe.

A Small Needful Fact

After all the news, the facts – truth and untruth, it takes a poet to tenderly place such horror, such outrage into a story-image that people can digest and remember and not turn away from. As you will know, Eric Garner was choked to death by police in New York 6 years ago; this poem was published the following year. Many have been killed since but the latest murder of George Floyd, echoing Garner’s phrase “I can’t breathe”, sadly shows how little has changed.

What I appreciate about Gay’s approach to this almost impossible-to-talk-about subject (and impossible not to talk about), is that he speaks of the time before, of Garner’s work as a gardener for the city. The repetition of perhaps, and in all likelihood, shows that he is imagining what this man’s life may have been – a real person, like you, like me. Plants which he put gently into the earth and which most likely continue to grow and continue to do what such plants do. All the necessary, important and pleasant things they do, like making it easier / for us to breathe.

A man helping plants grow to create oxygen so that we can breathe more easily. A man whose own oxygen was taken away from him so that he could not breathe – six years ago, last week. This is such a potent image that, to me, says so much more than ‘he was killed’ or even that ‘he was murdered’. The contrast between creating plant life and taking away human life is excruciatingly painful and it is this poet’s voice which conveys all this so memorably. A small needful fact that may make it harder for us to breathe.