First, remove the onions’ crisp jackets

then wipe away tears as your knife creates all manner of rectangles.

Watch the butter paint the pan before you overwhelm it with onions.

Hear the sizzle, smell the comfort, as the onions begin to soften,

as if they have just encountered magnificent kindness.

While the onions swoon, attend to the garlic,

prying nestled cloves from their snug families,

then cracking away their stiff clothing.

Crush and press their tenderness into pungent snow,

piling in the pot’s center, startling the onions.

Next come the green chilies, completing the holy trinity,

releasing the scent of all that is right in the world.

Create confetti as your spoon flips and flops,

then fetch the stockpot of kernels  whose hearts

have finally cracked open under the broth’s loving caress.

Add the hominy to the vegetables and baptize with more broth.

Meanwhile, remove hissing tomatoes from the oven,

then blend the bursting bodies and flame-stained skins

into a silky, steaming puddle of hope.

Allow the red liquid to flow into the pot,

add crushed chilies, vinegar, brown sugar, salt,

and stir, stir, stir,

until you taste the alchemy of a few simple ingredients

nurtured into the miracle of hot stew on a cold night.

I pity the underpaid

high school English teachers

who have to read

the journal entries

they assign.

 

I cringe reading

the ancient pink notebook

with blue ink doodles

and page after sordid page

littered with the trash

of my adolescence.

 

I swallow the impulse

to send out

a public service announcement

letting former classmates,

teachers, boyfriends, etc.

know that I am not

who I was.

No matter how many journeys they make

the geese will always grab my spirit

each time they fly over,

wings swishing a ticklish breeze,

voices echoing off clouds.

Tonight dozens of swishing, echoing arrows

flew under and around the swelling moon

as the sun reclined behind the canyon

leaving the burnt orange of dusk in its wake.

How marvelous it must be

see your silhouette etched into the moon,

to caress the changing colors of the sky.

 

When joy attacks me

I want to infect

the rest of the world

by sneezing kind words,

 coughing up gratitude,

spewing smiles at everyone I see.

 

If only it were so simple

if joy was as contagious

and persistent

as a virus spread by kissing

or germs lingering on shopping carts.

I sprint on tiptoes across frigid tile

hop in with a splash.

Heat overwhelms,

tingling my chilled body.

Scalding water entombs me,

the only way to thaw my blood

on these cold, damp days.

 

Tiny candle flames

cradle this sacred time,

celebrate this indoor warmth

while cars slide down icy streets

and pedestrians shiver up sidewalks.

 

Vapor slinks off my goosebumps,

rising into dim lighting

like spirits ascending—

exiting the chaos of my day,

evaporating into the tranquility of my evening.

 

I close my eyes,

imagine myself in another time,

another place,

the Highlands of Scotland, 14^th century,

bathing in a natural spring,

flesh bold in crisp mountain air,

moonlight exposing earth’s perspiration,

steamy ribbons undulating toward the stars.

 

In this fantasy

I am goddess,

I am complete.

I fill the pool,

the pool fills me,

amniotic fluid flowing

between earth’s body and mine.

 

I swallow the moon,

the moon swallows me,

eternal nourishment sating us both.

I release my joy into the lonely hills,

taste its sweet echo.

 

The ecstasy lingers

as I return to mortality

in my white, porcelain tub,

divinity flickering within me.

The snow tonight floats in a slow tempo

as if the flakes are avoiding the ground.

 

They tumble with such grace,

suspended and lovely,

perhaps they are putting on a show.

For whom?  Who choreographed it?  Will anyone applaud?

 

Or maybe the freedom and movement

bring so much delight

they are trying to stretch the experience

as long as possible.

How do they slow down?  What else brings them delight?

 

Perhaps the sky holds them back,

reluctant to surrender them to the earth,

fearing the lonely ache

left in their absence.

Do they say goodbye?  How does the sky grieve?

Night-colored water rushes forward

even though the cold

has bludgeoned its shores

into stiff walls

incapable of movement.

 

Fallen leaves glitter

like jewels in the snow.

Bold willow branches

wave their red audacity

in the face of purity.

 

Snowflakes tumble

from the sky’s pink pores,

joining the flow,

another cycle complete.

 

Naked trees shiver

while birds,

fat with food and feathers,

punctuate their stark poetry.

 

Ice murals preserve

memories of seasons past,

while the river sews

intricate patterns

into their collars.

 

Stillness spreads

among shriveled fruits,

dried grass, abandoned nests.

The world tucks itself in for rest,

the humble lullaby of the water

promising life’s full return.

A leaf, this morning,

stole my attention.

She twirled,

flitted,

pirouetted

to her own music

against the pink streaks of dawn,

capturing my breath

holding me still,

afraid to disrupt her grace.

For Chance, my Divine Old Guy

 

Do

Other

Gods

 

Drool

Or

Growl?

 

Dance

On

Grass?

 

Daily

Offer

Gratitude?

Feel your stomach drop

as you zoom

over and under

through and around

finally breaking away from the tracks

spinning through space

beyond time

beyond reason

beyond knowing anything worth knowing.

 

Will you keep your seatbelt fastened

or will you risk being hurled

somewhere far beyond

anywhere you’re supposed to be?