Broken city — a meditation

Last night I dreamt
that you and I stood
over broken glass
looking out
at our ravished city.
And when
it started to rain
you held your umbrella
over our heads
as the raindrops
tapped on the fabric
a secret code.
“Can you hear that?”
you asked me.
“The rain is saying
It’s not over yet.”

Lanterns — a meditation

Every night
I hang my prayers
by the side of your beds
like little lanterns
that you can carry
to the farthest
edges of your dreams.

Onward fearlessly
my brave knights.
Come back victorious,
riding the horses of dawn,
with the morning sun
rising behind you.

I’ll be waiting
with pancakes.

Boomerangs — a meditation

At the bottom of the hill
in the shade
of the bare oak tree
we stood
shouting our names
into the distance
and catching the echoes
as they returned,
like boomerangs,
into our soft, bare hands
while that mighty tree,
ancient and undisturbed,
wrapped the autumn breeze
around its naked branches
like a scarf.

The sunbather — a meditation

All morning I watched
a thin arm
of sunlight
pick its path
between branches
until it finally
rested its warm fingers
on your leg.

Then I gazed
into the perspiration
glistening on your thighs
until I saw visions
of your future:
You have beautiful children.

And while you sunbathed,
I connected
all your moles
with invisible lines
then colored in
all the animals
it revealed on your skin.
And now that I’ve named
every freckle
on your face
I can get up
to fold the laundry.

Marbles — a meditation

Remember how we
raced to the garden
to escape
the boredom
of the living room?
And when we
were done playing
they would make us
wipe our feet
on the mat
so that we don’t bring
any crazy ideas
back inside,
but you always
had some marbles
in your pocket
you crazy, crazy girl.

Window sill — a meditation

Outside
they compete,
five birds
in the tree.
They rhyme
to the rhythm
of 4/3.

And two
butterflies float
as if dancing
to the song,
they fall and rise
with every note.

All along I sit
quietly the window,
in a square patch
of sun,

on a sofa for one.

Grandpa’s death — a meditation

On the morning of the last day,
he woke up and saw death
blocking the doorway.
They wrestled each other
to the bedroom floor,
where my frail, fearless grandfather
was eventually defeated,
in patch of sunlight
on the marble.

He left in a hurry, my grandpa,
taking nothing with him
and leaving behind no last words.
He had just enough breath left
to say goodbye
but no one was there.
We thought
that death would come
in the night,
like all the thieves do,
but death crawled in
in the morning
and we weren’t there.