we teach

...best what we need to learn. 

I have always hated that phrase, 

mostly because I am a teacher. 

One who cares deeply about 

students' care for each other, 

teachers' willingness to collaborate, 

the excitement about learning, 

processing information to a creative form. 

Does that adage mean that I need 

to learn how to be kind, function within a team, 

be and stay enthused about learning? 

I hope not. I pray not. 

And, in some cases, what you need most

comes directly from your own hand. 

From your own mouth.  A plea, perhaps, 

a petition from your thirsty, starving heart. 

Listen, you shout to yourself. 

Stop this, yourself shouts to you. 

Usually, it all happens in my head, 

but this week, it came out as a chair. 

A chair I need to sit in, 

for many many hours, 

across from people I love and trust, 

with warm healthy food between us. 

A chair I need to see, read --

my words staring back at me, 

when I no longer believe

in possibilities, 

in truth and beauty, 

in my own splendor. 

a promise

There were so many promises, 

but the one that made me weep today

was this: she said, "We will never run out of things to say."

I was so sure we would, or I would. 

How could I possibly entertain and captivate someone 

after I told all of my classics: 

the time I fell out of my chair on the first day of teaching, 

winning all of the tennis intramural t-shirts in college, 

what happened to me on September 11th. 

How could the day to day discussions 

of life sustain a relationship?

But they did.  We never ran out of things to talk about. 

Sitting on the porch, walking down the block. 

There was never a numbed and silent long distance trip, 

nor were there dinners out where we just stared at the food, 

like so many couples do.  We talked, and talked and talked. 

Words came easy to us, even the hard words in hard times. 

And laughter was a close second.  

She always twisted us back home. 

But now, even after all of those years 

and all of those shared experiences, 

what would I say to her?

How are you?  How is your job?

Your house? Your garden? 

All of those are tied inextricably to her new girlfriend.

How am I?  How is my work? 

What have I learned about myself? 

What am I doing for fun? 

All of those are tied inescapably to the smokey ash 

of my personal Judeo-christian calendar. 

Except I do not know where to put the year zero: 

the day I met her or the day she left me.

Either way, even as my life and the possibilities of growth 

all still swirl around what she gave me, 

or what has been forced to change in her absence, 

I have nothing to tell her.   

And nothing I am able to hear from her. 

I cannot believe this, the best promise of all, 

the most comforting assurance 

in my life, is no longer true. 

I was right.  She was wrong. 

We have run out of things to say. 

Replanting

One patch of grass refuses to grow, 

after several layers of high grade topsoil, 

and many attempts with various kinds of seed. 

Sun, shade, sun and shade. 

The kind with fertilizer built in, the rough green stuff too. 

The yard was completely dug up two years ago

to put in a new run-off pipe and main line. 

The gorge could hold one hundred dead men, 

the dirt was piled ten feet high in my front yard. 

People stopped their cars to stare. 

Now, the water is out of my basement, 

the yard has regained it plumb, 

you can barely discern the trauma. 

And it all seems worth it, 

except for this patch which does not thrive. 

Today, as I feel the yellow belly of rage

and a monster jealousy within me, 

today, as I again wander backwards, 

my eyes still welling with tears, 

feeling the sour swell of being alone,

I wonder if this patch is the part of me 

that cannot, will not, attempts not to flourish -

if I cling to some part of this thing I will never again know. 

No matter how many times my hurt is tilled 

and reseeded, part of me rejects the notion to grow. 

And yet, I bike to the Heights Garden Center, 

buy the best organic mix this time. 

I rake the topsoil with a sturdy rake. 

Toss the kernels onto the brown,

then I begin, watering the hope once again. 

10 words

The autumn,

like parts of my heart. 

Blazing, 

then fallen. 

Testament

On the edge of spring, as buds spotted the trees, 

we unexpectedly found ourselves

perfect for each other, 

perfect for the time, the intersection. 

And we created a cocoon

of phone calls and feet,  

of words written on long pages, 

and songs picked and presented as gifts. 

We found benches to sit upon in so many cities, 

and walked down their streets, 

hand in hand, hand upon back,

unashamed to be loving, solid in our space and place. 

It was just right.  A healing time, 

a finding time, a period of redefining. 

It was - you were - a Moses moment for me, 

holy and resurrecting. 

Leading me through the desert, 

pouring cup after cup of cool water. 

Handing over our loose hearts, 

we made requisitions that will last a lifetime. 

And now, as the Japanese maple

blazes its burning bush

and we turn in a new direction, 

packed for a different kind of long  journey together

I need you to know I heard you calling,

you heard me calling,  

we both  answered, "Here I am" 

and, together, we created a promised land that I loved. 

Sweet

I can picture him

at Marshalls or Target, 

maybe even Restoration Hardware, 

looking at the pillow and the throw, 

wondering if my brother and sister-in-law

would like them.  Wondering if they would match 

their furniture as well as 

he could imagine them matching.

I can picture him

pulling out the charge card, excited. 

Chatting with the cashier. 

Then penning the note, 

putting the items in the big bag, 

covering it with tissue paper. 

I can picture him

thinking of them today

opening the present, 

his present to them 

on their anniversary. 

For some reason this makes my heart ache, 

how my father works so purposefully, 

sweetly, to gift his love. 

How he thinks and plans, 

then executes in a perfect way. 

How it's just him now, 

and how he knows we count on him 

to provide us with a double kind of devotion.

How he just wants to be seen, and known, 

maybe thanked for paying such gentle attention. 

How I can see the little boy in him, 

in his seventy-four year old face.

How he ducks his eyes just a bit

and holds out every one 

of his offerings with both hands. 

Wanting it to be just right. 

Wanting it all to be alright, 

never exactly sure 

that it always is. 

When in doubt

...eat popsicles. 

When in doubt, 

eat anything with sugar, 

especially popsicles. 

Accept the temporary high. 

When in doubt, 

take a long fast moped ride,

winding through the streets you love,

Fairmount, South Park, North Park, Eaton,

until you can feel your world spinning

underneath you again. 

When in doubt, 

pick up your neighbor's daughter

and make her laugh, 

until you care more about keeping

the sticks from the yard out of her mouth

than you do about burrowing sticks

into your own thin skin. 

When in doubt,

listen to your answering machine, 

the saved messages. 

One from Helen with a joke

about two zebras and a pickle,

one from Mark about the birth 

of baby John, 

one from Grace

where you can hear your mom 

in the background. 

When in doubt, 

wash some clothes 

and put them on straight from the dryer, 

warm, fresh, 

like the skin you wish you were in.

When in doubt, 

write a letter, or an email, 

correct the mistake 

that has you swimming. 

Put soft words in your brown heart, 

and let them massage a newness into you. 

When in doubt, 

and through the doubt,

and when the doubt is waning,

eat a popsicle. 

Then another if need be. 

Let your lips be red and happy,

and the rest of you will follow suit. 

Hummingbird

Yesterday, a hummingbird 

sucked from this wavy petunia. 

Drank the nectar out of a plant 

nearly dying after a long, dry August. 

I wanted to see it as a sign. 

I want everything to be a sign now. 

That there is lingering life in death, 

personal living resurrections. 

That there is sweetness 

even in the most difficult times. 

That our eyes seek color, 

and float over to it. 

That, no matter what, 

we can beat our wings

at extraordinary speed, 

just to stay alive.