Apple Blossoms by Susan Kelly-DeWitt

One evening in winter
when nothing has been enough,
when the days are too short,

the nights too long
and cheerless, the secret
and docile buds of the apple

blossoms begin their quick
ascent to light. Night
after interminable night

the sugars pucker and swell
into green slips, green
silks. And just as you find

yourself at the end
of winter’s long, cold
rope, the blossoms open

like pink thimbles
and that black dollop 
of shine called

bumblebee stumbles in.

Apple Blossoms

I know, technically this is the first day of spring, and though the sun peeks out periodically, the temperature still has the chill of winter in it. So even if I am premature, I go looking for poems celebrating the arrival of spring and find this gem. One evening in winter / when nothing has been enough – sometimes in late winter, this is how it feels, cheerless as she tells us. And yet, one of those evenings, the secret / and docile buds of the apple // blossoms begin their quick / ascent to the light. What a gorgeous image of these unseen buds as they rise inexorably toward the sun’s light.

During these seemingly endless nights, the sugars pucker and swell / into green slips, green / silks. Can’t you just picture these viridescent jewels unfolding? She captures that sense of weariness, of wanting the season to change, of being at the end / of winter’s long, cold /rope. But just then, she rewards us with the promise that the blossoms will open like pink thimbles, tiny delicate flowering cups. And as if that were not enough, that black dollop / of shine called / bumblebee stumbles in. Sigh of contentment. Can’t you just imagine this, even if it’s not happening yet where you are – but it will, a poet told me so.

Here by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Even as the snow was falling,
the birds in the branches
kept singing into morning,
easing their bright notes
into the thin gray spaces
between snowflakes.

There are days, imagine,
when the birds go unheard.
And it isn’t for lack of song—
the single note chirp
of sparrow, the bass of raven,
the chickadee’s hey swee-tee.

Some gifts come only
when we stay in one place,
come only when we are alone,
come only when we stop praying
to be somewhere else and instead
pray to be here.

Here

The snow is still falling in this part of the world, albeit more like rain at times, but the birds are beginning to make themselves heard in the mornings easing their bright notes / into the thin gray spaces / between snowflakes. This image delights me, combining both the visual and the auditory, the bright and the gray. The poet asks us to imagine that some days, the birds go unheard. / And it isn’t for lack of song. How often do we go about our day oblivious to the beauty of bird chirps, caws and the chickadee’s hey swee-tee?

She is sharing the easily forgotten wisdom that such gifts may only be noticed when we stay in one place, come only when we are alone, when we stop our constant moving, talking, doing, being so busy. These gifts of snowflakes and birdsong are only apparent when we stop praying / to be somewhere else and instead / pray to be here. Wherever ‘here’ is right now, not wishing for life to be other than it is, that is where some gifts come to us, if we can just be in the moment. Listen, can you hear the music the birds are singing to us?

Wondrous by Sarah Freligh

I’m driving home from school when the radio talk
turns to E.B. White, his birthday, and I exit
the here and now of the freeway at rush hour,

travel back into the past, where my mother is reading
to my sister and me the part about Charlotte laying her eggs
and dying, and though this is the fifth time Charlotte

has died, my mother is crying again, and we’re laughing
at her because we know nothing of loss and its sad math,
how every subtraction is exponential, how each grief

multiplies the one preceding it, how the author tried
seventeen times to record the words She died alone
without crying, seventeen takes and a short walk during

which he called himself ridiculous, a grown man crying
for a spider he’d spun out of the silk thread of invention —
wondrous how those words would come back and make

him cry, and, yes, wondrous to hear my mother’s voice
ten years after the day she died — the catch, the rasp,
the gathering up before she could say to us, I’m OK.

Wondrous

I feel I want to start by saying, if you have never read Charlotte’s Web, please make time for it in your lifetime. It is a story of such tenderness and loving that it is clearly not meant just for children. The poem begins with hearing on the radio about the birthday of the author, E.B.White, and she exits the here and now of the freeway at rush hour – already we know we are on the trail of a worthy story. Such stories are indeed wondrous.

The poet takes us directly to the key point, how the spider, Charlotte, bravely dies after laying her eggs, and how Freligh’s mother, reading to her and her sister, cries for the fifth time at this part. The girls are laughing because we know nothing of loss and its sad math, in that way that children haven’t yet learned how each grief / multiplies the one preceding it. In three short lines, she captures the essence of grieving in her ‘sad math’ equation.

She tells us that White, in recording his story, could not get out the words She died alone, feeling ridiculous about crying for a spider he’d spun out of the silk thread of invention. It becomes so clear that though the spider is an invention, the grief evoked is not. Freligh marvels that ten years after the day she died, her mother’s voice is still clear to her – the catch, the rasp, / the gathering up before she can go on. One senses that the grief for her own mother’s death is contained in this poem, a story within a story.

Days by Billy Collins

Each one is a gift, no doubt, 
mysteriously placed in your waking hand 
or set upon your forehead 
moments before you open your eyes. 

Today begins cold and bright, 
the ground heavy with snow 
and the thick masonry of ice, 
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds. 

Through the calm eye of the window 
everything is in its place 
but so precariously 
this day might be resting somehow 

on the one before it, 
all the days of the past stacked high 
like the impossible tower of dishes 
entertainers used to build on stage. 

No wonder you find yourself 
perched on the top of a tall ladder 
hoping to add one more. 
Just another Wednesday 

you whisper, 
then holding your breath, 
place this cup on yesterday’s saucer 
without the slightest clink.

Days

I’ve always appreciated Billy Collins for his gentle humour and easy accessibility, and as with some such as this, his deft wisdom that lingers after reading. The gift of each day mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead, a gift we tend to take for granted too often. A day much like this one, bright with snow and the thick masonry of ice, a phrase that brings to mind the solidity of stonework.

Gazing through the calm eye of the window, he introduces the idea that this day might be resting somehow // on the one before it, and is this not exactly how it is, each new day arranged in a neat or haphazard pile on the last? Then he creates a whimsical image of past days of your life stacked high / like the impossible tower of dishes, a tower you’ve surely seen in a slapstick cartoon.

He imagines us perched on the top of a tall ladder wanting to add another day to that unlikely structure. Just another Wednesday // you whisper, just one more day, one more gift of this amazing life, and with breath held, he shows us how we place this cup on yesterday’s saucer / without the slightest clink. Each day another layer, like the thickness of ice that may or may not hold fast as we place our days one upon another. Precarious, yes, but oh so exquisite to behold.

Because Even the Word Obstacle Is an Obstacle by Alison Luterman

Try to love everything that gets in your way:
the Chinese women in flowered bathing caps
murmuring together in Mandarin, doing leg exercises in your lane
while you execute thirty-six furious laps,
one for every item on your to-do list.
The heavy-bellied man who goes thrashing through the water
like a horse with a harpoon stuck in its side,
whose breathless tsunamis rock you from your course.
Teachers all. Learn to be small
and swim through obstacles like a minnow
without grudges or memory. Dart
toward your goal, sperm to egg. Thinking Obstacle
is another obstacle. Try to love the teenage girl
idly lounging against the ladder, showing off her new tattoo:
Cette vie est la mienne, This life is mine,
in thick blue-black letters on her ivory instep.
Be glad she’ll have that to look at all her life,
and keep going, keep going. Swim by an uncle
in the lane next to yours who is teaching his nephew
how to hold his breath underwater,
even though kids arent allowed at this hour. Someday,
years from now, this boy
who is kicking and flailing in the exact place
you want to touch and turn
will be a young man, at a wedding on a boat
raising his champagne glass in a toast
when a huge wave hits, washing everyone overboard.
He’ll come up coughing and spitting like he is now,
but he’ll come up like a cork,
alive. So your moment
of impatience must bow in service to a larger story,
because if something is in your way it is
going your way, the way
of all beings; towards darkness, towards light.

Because Even the Word Obstacle

Ever since I first read this poem a few years ago, my mind returns to it on those occasions that seem to fit perfectly, in my own experience, into the litany of possibilities which the poet curates for us. And I delight in the humour she brings to these situations which can sometimes help me find a glimmer of amusement in things that can otherwise just frustrate me.

Try to love everything that gets in your way. Such a clear declaration of sage advice, though of course not so easy in practice. If you pool-swim, you will instantly recognize these literal obstacles slowing you down – the women doing leg exercises in your lane, the thrashing heavy-bellied man. Teachers all, such truth in two words. The tattooed teenage girl, the uncle teaching his nephew how to hold his breath underwater which becomes a riff on the boy as a young man washed overboard at a wedding on a boat but he’ll come up like a cork.

Remember that all these people who have slowed you down, be it in a pool, or at the grocery store, or driving late to your appointment, can teach you patience, and we must bow in service to a larger story. More than that, she tells us if something is in your way it is / going your way. She is reminding us that we are all moving towards darkness, towards light. It is the way / of all beings. Something to think about, isn’t it. But don’t let me stand in your way.

Winter: Tonight: Sunset by David Budbill

Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first

through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop

and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.

I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening

a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky.

Winter: Tonight: Sunset

It is still winter in this part of the world despite the sudden temperature spikes, and this is such a lovely, compact poem by a favorite Vermont poet who left behind a rich legacy of such memorable work. I was taken by his title, three words, separated by colons which he uses to give emphasis to each part, rather than to put them all together in a single phrase. It caught my attention right away.

It’s evening, sunset and he is walking on the snowy road, his shoes making that crunching sound one can get on frozen snow. He walks through woods, then into open fields past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, a detail that makes the scene even more present. Then all of a sudden, so many colors in the sky at sunset, all at once and everywhere – I’m guessing you’ve seen a sunset like that, too many colors to even name.

He pauses, for who could not, whether at the beginning of my old age, or at the beginning of youth or middle age, to say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening. Who can take for granted that we will arrive at this time of day to see such beauty? His prayer is one we might all remember, for being here, today, now, alive / in this life, to see this amazing sky, to be so fully alive. May we always pause to allow a sunset to wake us up to this life.

Winter Thanks by Marcus Jackson

To the furnace—tall, steel rectangle
containing a flawless flame.
To heat

gliding through ducts, our babies
asleep like bundled opal.
Praise

every furry grain of every
warm hour, praise each
deflection of frost,

praise the fluent veins, praise
the repair person, trudging
in a Carhartt coat

to dig for leaky lines, praise
the equator, where snow
is a stranger,

praise the eminent sun
for letting us orbs buzz around it
like younger brothers,

praise the shooter’s pistol
for silencing its fire by
reason of a chilly chamber

praise our ancestors who shuddered
through winters, bunched
on stark bunks,

praise the owed money
becoming postponed by a lender
who won’t wait

much longer in the icy wind,
praise the neon antifreeze
in our Chevrolet radiator,

and praise the kettle whistle,
imitating an important train,
delivering us

these steam-brimmed sips of tea.

Winter Thanks

I find I love the humble vulnerability of poets who write praise poems. In this one, Marcus Jackson, a new-to-me poet, begins with the furnace – tall, steel rectangle / containing a flawless flame, giving thanks for warming our babies / asleep like bundled opal, what an image that is! He offers praise for the repair person, trudging in a Carhartt coat to keep the leaky lines flowing, the heat blowing through ducts, warmth more than a coat.

Then there is praise of the equator where snow / is a stranger, of the magnetic sun for letting us orbs buzz around it / like younger brothers, of the unloaded gun silencing its fire. I was especially touched by his praise for our ancestors who shuddered / through winters, bunched / on stark bunks, a thought that often comes to me in my furnace-warmed rooms as I imagine unheated spaces in times past, or for that matter, present.

There is praise for the neon antifreeze / in our Chevrolet radiator – what would we do without it in these temperatures? And finally, praise for the whistle of a kettle imitating an important train, / delivering us // these steam-brimmed sips of tea. Now there’s an image with sound and sight and taste and touch all in one, that seems to contain many of the reasons to give thanks for winter. Let us sip a cup of hot tea to offset the winter’s chill, another comfort as the furnace deflects the frost.

Don’t Expect Applause by Ellen Bass

And yet, wouldn’t it be welcome
at the end of each ordinary day?
The audience could be small,
the theater modest. Folding chairs
in a church basement would do.
…Just a short earnest burst of applause
that you got up that morning
and, one way or the other,
made it through the day.

You soaped up in the steaming
shower, drank your Starbucks
in the car, and let the guy with the
Windex wipe your windshield
during the long red light at Broad Street.
Or maybe you were that guy,
not daring to light up
while you stood there because
everyone’s so down on smoke these days.

Or you kissed your wife
as she hurried out the door, even though
you were pretty sure she was
meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel,
even though you wanted to grab her
by a hank of her sleek hair.

Maybe your son’s in jail.
Your daughter’s stopped eating.
And your husband’s still dead
this morning, just like he was
yesterday and the day before that.
And yet you put on your shoes
and take a walk, and when a neighbor
says Good morning, you say
Good morning back.

Would a round of applause be amiss?
Even if you weren’t good.
If you yelled at your kid,
poisoned the ants, drank too much
and said that really stupid thing
you promised yourself you wouldn’t say.
Even if you don’t deserve it.

Don’t Expect Applause

Ellen Bass has a knack for translating those random thoughts that pass through our mind from time to time, and putting words to them in such a way as to help it all make some sense, as well as with gentle humor. I must say there are days when any sign of appreciation for the endless rounds of thankless tasks would be a happy surprise. And the idea of hands clapping, especially at the end of an ordinary day, would be welcome.

From that first act of the morning, whether it be simply standing up and moving slowly, or, leaping into race day mode, each one is noteworthy, though it may not earn you applause. All the possibilities of a day, from the dramatic to the mundane, are made for appreciation though you may not receive it. Which leads me to wonder if perhaps the applause needs to come from ourselves.

Even if you weren’t good, because who gets through the day without some small thing to regret, something to apologize for saying or doing. Even if you don’t deserve it, because maybe, being human, you really do deserve it. A round of applause for yourself then would not be amiss, would you agree?

the first quiet of the morning by Maya Stein

Don’t spend it on the stack of mail, the phone call,
the mounting inventory of groceries. Resist
the finished wash cycle and the dishes clamoring for clean-up.
Ignore the pileup by the front door, the mess left in the wake
of the weekend. These things carry the patience and constancy of bedrock.
Not the first quiet of the morning. It is thin and needy, hungry for your touch.
You will miss it when it goes, siphoning out the way it does, toppled
by the weight of all your noisy urgencies, those lists mortaring your day together.
This for you, this sweet and brief emptiness, this desert island, this nest nesting
your inevitable flight. Hold your wings still. Don’t go just yet.

the first quiet of the morning

As soon as I read this title, and being a fan of Maya Stein’s work, I was in. It’s that ‘first quiet’ that I feel viscerally, so ephemeral yet it fills me with joyful aliveness and a sense of belonging in this world. Her admonitions not to squander that precious time with mail (in my own case email) strike a chord. There will always be laundry and unwashed dishes, messes that require our attention. These things carry the patience and constancy of bedrock. Oh yes, they will wait for us, solid in their faithfulness.

But that early morning quiet not so; it is hungry for your touch and will not last. You will miss it when it goes – that is, if you even realize what you have missed. It slips away, overtaken by the weight of all your noisy urgencies – listen to me! me first! they call to us, all those lists mortaring your day together. This is how it goes, is it not? The next ‘to-do’ demanding your response.

Pay attention she is reminding us, this sweet and brief emptiness is there for us in that first quiet of the morning. Don’t miss this respite, this nest nesting / your inevitable flight. Inevitable, but don’t go just yet, be still, let the pleasure of this fleeting time fill you and set a course for your day. I’ve always loved those priceless moments before the daily routines begin and I’m loving this poetic reminder not to miss them. Don’t go just yet.

Skating by Kate Sorbara

Some winter nights we skated on the pond.
The milky way above, the ice its own
kind of milky mass below our blades.
Our hands and feet got cold, then colder.
Cloudy angels flew from our mouths.
Stars haloed everyone.
Sometimes we shouted and played red rover
or found an old shoe or a hockey puck
to play a cobbled game. Sometimes we circled
without a word, listening to the quiet
frosty darkness. Now and then
there was a thunderous crack from somewhere
far below and you couldn’t but quake
and wonder at the deep on either side.

Skating

I remember now, skating on a lake near where I grew up, feet numb but exhilarated to be out in the cold at night, so this poem speaks to me. It may not resonate with you, but I hope that you might at least get some of the feeling it evokes. Sorbara skillfully curates such clear images that even if you have never skated, you just might feel yourself gliding across the ice.

She sets the scene with the milky way above, the ice its own kind of milky mass below our blades. Hands and feet getting colder, while cloudy angels flew from our mouths. I delight in such images that make me wish I might have thought of them myself. I can hear the shouts of children playing red rover, calling someone over to our side, and of course, the ubiquitous pick-up hockey with no real rules, just lots of enthusiasm.

Then there are the times without words, listening to the quiet / frosty darkness. If you’ve ever heard thick ice cracking, you’ll know what she means about the thunderous crack from somewhere / far below and the heart-stopping sense that the ice might give way to the freezing waters. I’m particularly taken by her ending, how you couldn’t but quake / and wonder at the deep on either side. She offers the possibility of a depth above as well as below that hadn’t occurred to me as a child but which rings true now. Perhaps one of these winter nights you will experience some of this yourself, and if not, you will at least have this poem.