Après moi, le déluge.

Sometimes I think we haven’t learned much
Since the time of Louis XV.

We focus on ourselves,
Our hedonistic pleasure,
Ignoring the effects of our selfishness
Because change is too hard.

Each choice made out of convenience,
Each moment of waste,
Is a raindrop
Drowning out our futures.

We think of future generations
With pity and shake our heads,
“What a shame.”
But we aren’t shamed enough
To give up ease or cheapness.

This morning at breakfast
My daughter was dancing
To the muzak piped into the restaurant.

We started to sway in our seats,
Then we stood and swayed
And we moved more and more
Until we were whirling dervishes
Spinning in delight
In the middle of a public place.

And she helped me remember
The elation of dancing —
Whether or not anybody is watching —
Moving gleefully only for
Ourselves.

Sometimes, sadness doesn’t come when it should.

My aunt died and I adored her.

I expected tears and wailing

Depression sinking in and leaving me despondent.

But the bleakness following her death

Wasn’t what I expected

My heartache felt like numbness

Pandemic, family illness, isolation—

The death of my aunt was just

Another stone for the pile of dysphoria

Threatening to topple my life.

It’s been a year now, and still

No tears have fallen.

Sometimes sadness is sneaky

Making me feel grief for not grieving,

Sorrow for not suffering.

I knocked on the door with
Rage climbing my throat.

“Where is he?”
And when he appeared with a heavy sigh,
I spilled black ire all over him.

I was soaked in indignation.
I was fighting SO HARD for us —
Why wasn’t he?

The love we had shared went sour
Like old milk,
Scented with acrimony, enmity, malice.

The person who had promised to love me forever
Didn’t.

Vexation.

How do you keep your vows
When the other person only wants out?

And underneath my choler,
Was staying together what I really wanted?

Green filters through the leaves
And blue winks between.
My bed is the roots of this tree;
My blanket is the warmth of the sun.

I close my eyes and feel luminous,
As if sunlight radiates through me
Pouring out of my fingertips and toes.

This summer day of clarion beauty
Hazes the sky with heat that
Bakes into my bones as I bask in it.

On this brilliant, shining day
Nothing is more important
Than being here with you, under this tree.

The glass shatters on the wall
Fiery curses explode from my mouth as
A squall of anger roars through me.
I lose myself in the gale;
Feel my heart beating faster
Even as conscious thought leaves me
And I become tempestuous impulse.
Dark raging rains of daily irritations
Build into a blast of wrath
Loosed on whoever and whatever is near.

And after all the roar and bluster,
There is only mess–
Regret and shame roll in with the calm
And the exhausting, frustrating work of clean up and repair
Begins again.

I took a picture of two trees on a hill once.
I told you this is what I imagine marriage to be:
Growing tall next to each other,
Roots intertwining,
Leaves and branches intermingling.
We become a home together–
Birds and squirrels jumping limb to limb.
We weather storms together,
Going through seasons of change
(Always next to each other),
Spring breezes make our leaves laugh,
And winter freezes force us to rest waiting for a new day.

I am so thankful you chose to plant your
Self
Beside me.

First Love is supposed to be tender,
And maybe it was once.
But my first love was my only love for more than a decade,
And what I remember most is the anger and tears.

It started with yearning and enchantment,
But as I gave away pieces of myself
(Though he never asked)
I only yearned for being cherished and loved for who I really was.

Through the years, he felt the fires of passion
But not for me.
Slow dread built in my heart with every secretive phone call,
Every long blonde hair on his suit,
Every late day at the office.

I battled myself for years —
Should I leave? Marriage is forever.
But deep in my heart,
Buried under years of “should,”
I knew I was worth more than this.

This wasn’t love,
It was fear.

Maybe my first love should have been myself.

It’s cold now,
But the grass is turning.
Hope is budding.
Fresh sunlight paints the world brighter.
I plant seeds, bless them with patience,
Watch for them to burst forth in vernal promise.
Around me winter grapples for more time,
But persistent and perennial,
Spring pushes Old Man Winter back.
Fresh breezes blow,

Change flowers–for good or for ill–
And the crocus promises warmth to come.

The rain here is barely more than mist.
It drizzles, cold and soaking, for hours and hours.

I miss the rain of Oklahoma —
Huge thunderheads rolling in,
Cumulonimbus giants shaking their fists
Getting ready to crash together
And knock the rain from each other in sheets.

Something about thunderstorms
Drives me wild with passion,
Makes me want to dance,
While lightning flashes outside the windows
And thunder shakes the house.

Here the rain is slow —
Persistent, gray, cold —
Like death settling over a house in
Winter.