I don’t understand all the complications of love
or why the heart pulls us where it does.
I don’t understand how we happened to sit
in neighboring seats for the same class
and knew from there that you were my person
and I was yours.
Nineteen years is a long time in love,
a long time to count kisses and fights,
a long time to brave obstacles unforeseen.
It’s long enough to know you’re still my person,
no matter what changes come.
It’s long enough to know the simple side of love:
your hand will always fit in mine.

I get stuck—
so so so stuck—
in wanting
[fill in the blank].
For myself, my kids,
my friends, my community.
But by the time the miracle of
[fill in the blank]
arrives like a package
on my doorstep,
I’ve already chosen a new
[fill in the blank]
to pine after.
The arrival of the old wish
isn’t good enough.
Existence is found wanting.
The latest lack of
[fill in the blank]
is all I can focus on.
Everywhere I look,
I see brokenness that
[fill in the blank]
would fix.

Until intuition
takes over
like a second,
saner self,
saying,

“Shhhhhhh.
Shhhhhhh.
Shhhhhhh.

“Let phantoms slip from your mind.
Let your eyes rest
on true forms around you.
Let magic speak its quiet thought:

“Everything you need is here.”

September has packed her bags,
her timeshare ending.
With her will go the golden leaves
and the golden sunshine
of 75-degree days, the perfection
of summer-into-fall.

I stand at the threshold
so sad to see her depart.

We might wish to hurry the year out,
dispense its bad luck
in exchange for a new guest,
but September? No.
I always wish she’d extend her stay.

Everything is true
and nothing is real,
so I’m free to be both
skeptic AND believer.

Free to credit fate for
unforeseen twists AND
heed pragmatism’s
wise precautions.

Free to chart my course
with careful precision
AND bask in sunshine
beyond my command.

Free to close my eyes
in peaceful trust AND
open them to dangers
or wonders ahead.

Free to let wind fill my sails
AND power forward unaided;
free to create my life AND
surrender to greater forces.

Free to see magic
in coincidence AND
consequence in choice;
free to smile at both.

Everything is true;
nothing is real.
Life is a paradox;
perception is a game.

My eyes nitpick imperfections—
the pillow plopped on the floor,
the device left loitering.

I see what’s wrong with my world—
the out-of-place objects,
the offenses that need fixing.

But sunrise alters the scene—
the fiery redness intruding,
the colors fresh and intriguing.

I reconsider my perspective—
the filter I opt to see through,
the feels defined by that choice.

My heart shifts to perfection—
the sunbathed beauty of light,
the gratitude for all that is.

When the sun’s path traverses
the long skinny lake beside us
so that wildflower meadows
capping its ends glisten with
dew drops in the sunrise—

When the forest whomps
a wave of energy through me
so that I stop and fill my lungs
with the warm greeting of
a thousand lodgepole pines—

When the cold lake offsets
the sweat of a midday hike
so that naked bodies squeal
then prickle then tingle then
laugh at an all-natural swim—

When the butterfly flits from
cloudform to chat to actuality
so that its representation of life
and soul transforms my focus
into meaning-filled presence—

When the moonless sky offers
galactic pinprick brightness
so that stars burn into my retinas
and reappear inside my eyelids
when I close them to sleep—

When the experience provides
every want/need my heart held
so that I’m reminded to open it …
open it wide … open it wider …
and open it wider still.

Quarantine burn-out has us sick
of the comforts of home;
social distancing has us
thinking remotely—
not of Zoom meetings
or online-ordered grocery delivery
but how to escape civilization altogether,
ditching our technological ties
and pitching tents in the open air
cooking and eating outdoors
where contagions are lessened by UV rays
and immunity is boosted
by the woodsy phytogenic scent of trees.

The only trouble is that all of us
have concluded the same thing.
Escaping crowds by escaping to crowded
campgrounds and busy hiking trails?
One more irony to add to a crazy year.

Still.
Nature therapy is needed now
more than ever.

Pink feels as radical right now
as the nursery cashier’s pink hair.
I thanked her for it and she laughed
behind the plexiglass between us
as she scanned my plant babies.

We need all the happy pink, I told her.
She smiled and agreed, her mouth
as pink as her hair but more rare—
now that ordinary smiles are scarce,
scowled at, shamed, even disallowed.

We are hurting. So many have died,
struggling to breathe in and out,
trachea intubated, speech gagged,
seeing only eyes of brave strangers,
loved ones banned, mouths barred.

I understand that it’s all we knew
how to do: separate, isolate, disinfect,
lock down, stay inside, cover your face
—despite the gasping contradiction
that this makes it harder to breathe.

Outside, pink trees are leafing out
as the planet inhales with glee;
in another hemisphere it exhales
with another parade of warm color.
Its invisible woodsy scent attacks
germs, viruses, even cancer.

Yet we fell forests three times faster
than new saplings can be bedded,
douse the world in chemicals
that turn our pink lungs black,
eradicate shared microbes
that would boost immunity.

What have we done? We’ve
pushed each other six feet away,
robbing our microbiomes more;
pushed children out of schools
that would build herd protection;
pushed the fretful out of churches
that dispel fear; pushed creators out
of businesses that craft courage;
pushed workers into poverty
and the poor into starvation;
pushed the quarantined into
depression and the depressed
toward suicide. We’ve punished
seekers of outdoor sanctuaries,
gatherers grieving their dead,
and dreamers who dare to live.

I understand that it’s all we knew
how to do, trapped in the tunnel
vision of either/or. I understand
how life and liberty seem at odds.

I want to cry, but the best protest
I can advocate is a pink smile.

Stay back, if you prefer.
I won’t invade your space
nor endanger the weak
nor threaten with a gun.
I’m a peace-loving flower child,
a new-age, hippy rebel who’s
admittedly flawed, neither
carbon neutral nor perfectly fit.

What can I do? Only fight for
a fairer world to blossom pink
as I tuck oxygen producers
into the soil, foster nutrients,
boycott sprays, swallow herbs,
promote nature’s medicines,
deter disease, smile big,
and breathe deeply.

I will not mask that hope.
Pink feels radical right now.

Every year, spring riots against winter
not only in the silent eruptions
of millions of blossoms on trees
but also in the birdsong that chants
WE ARE ALIVE! like slogan tweets
gone viral. Green blades knife out
of the ground, buds swell on branches
until they can’t be contained.
Day by day their protest gains
momentum, transforming a dead
world into life.

Every year, I am mesmerized
by the power in every microscopic
cell to know the time has come
to shed the old forms and grow.

Throwback to Thursdays—
any pre-pandemic Thursday—
back when my days were marked
by classrooms and faculty lounges;

by carpool drop-offs and pick-ups,
dance groups and guitar lessons,
choir practice and date nights,
gym time and social gatherings;

by soccer games, buried under
blankets and inside coats, sipping
thermos coffee, the biggest worry
hoping our son kicks a great play;

by what to wear for bleachers
or work or workouts or worship,
cinemas or concerts or clubs,
shops or restaurants or bars.

The Thursday it began to end,
I sat in business clothes grading
as my colleagues broke the news;
I watched the sunlit breakroom
slowly empty, everything surreal.

Now I’m uncertain of the date,
sweatpants feeling ubiquitous,
school and meetings and lessons
blurring together on the screens,
thermoses wasting in a drawer.

Anxiety and endless news feeds
have become our go-to places,
sick counts and death counts
mark the calendar’s advance,
symptoms our biggest worry—
followed by financial futures.

We huddle in our homes,
scared of what-may-comes.

But there’s a bird who warbles
the unique trill of springtime
on the other side of my walls,
announcing the season’s advent
as do yellow forsythia blossoms,
despite snow recurring on lawns
like late winter’s morning dew.

Our kids fight but also laugh,
strummed chords float up from
our teenager’s basement room,
jokes abound on text threads,
friends wave across streets,
walks are extra welcome,
sunshine is cause for cheer.

Lightness to balance out
the heavy facts and fears.

Maybe the days don’t need
marking or throwing back
so much as breathing—in
gratitude for what we have.