It comes back around
The April Rain
The letter I mailed last week without an address
by strange degrees:
my memories
My children grown to versions of myself
Our voices back and forth on the telephone
Is that me? Is it you?
Our quiet Mornings
These diseases that confound and disrupt an entire turning world
Medicine cabinet reminders
You were sick. You got better, the wheel turns…
You were sick, you got better…
Scars return us to memories and wounds
One look in the mirror could confirm recovery
Or not…maybe just further scarring
My face returns in waves of recognition and melting distortion
The giving we give returns to us
Books we lent and never wanted back
My name is in the flyleaf, it must want to roost here
Gentle evenings with my loves
My lonliness
Baby books
Locks of hair
Memories returned in purgings and passages
These Looks across a zoom room
Joys exchanged -the sharing of these poems
This “new” yet now familiar ritual of springtime
It returns me to the playground
The thrill of a low circular table
The smell of mucilage and construction paper
That giddy feeling :“now let’s make something”
Emptying out returns
Filling up
Starting from scratch
The curious moment
The well of grief
The tickle
The tear
The belly laugh
They all return
Evidence of
Familiar ground we walk
Over and again
To notice
New shoots springing from old trees
Early Morning Poems 