Cold Feet (and other reasons not to write)

My feet are actually, literally very cold today.  I sit at my desk, fully distracted by how uncomfortable the two of them are.  It's not astrophysics, though, is it?  I have these nice Uggs Jesse and Annie brought me for Christmas last year so on they go.

Relief.

I wonder if there is something cozy for my mind.  Is there something I can wrap up in to warm this corner and get me to stretch out into this thing, this season, I've looked forward to for so long?

I have not, most definitely have not, looked forward to the off-spring being gone.  One, two, three, four- they are away.  And this is not about that.  They are well.  And I am well.

Oh, I'm not going to pretend empty nest didn't arrive with a sudden, shocking grief.  Even though I saw it coming.  Even though I welcomed the silence as I wept, embracing them on their way.

There were parties when each baby arrived.  No parties to say, "All gone!"

But even so.

This faffing around, this inability to settle at my desk, is not that.

This is a binding cold.

I am a writer.

And my feet are freezing.

As You Go

It rained last night
unseasonal, but perfectly suited
a quiet, constant drizzle
like a mourning

A mourning last night
expected, but patently difficult
a grey grief misting
like a rain

And I may worry as you go
so many little things
when trying to feel
at home

So many big things
rising in a heart
very far from
what it knows

But I don't worry
about you
who you are or
who you will become

You live well
and shine
soft, clear
strong

We send you
in amazement
in confidence
and with tears

A joy last night
sure, if understandably muted
a calm, constant knowing
like all that is good

-lisa, 20 August, 2012

Still Life

A long quiet month.
Not for lack of things to ponder.  For an excess of things, actually.
An excess of big, chunky things that just needed hush.

When I was a girl, I loved to stand in the pulling tide.
First the water rushed-- pushing, pushing.
Suddenly, it could push no more.

There, at its height, everything went still for the skinniest slice of a very slim second.

With the reversal, my bare feet were unable to hold their ground.
Upright, yes.  But the ground beneath me ripped away, leaving little hollows in the places where my feet fell.

There are two departures coming up.
Certain as ebb and flood, I am unable to cause them not to happen.

Perhaps this last month has been lived in that shaving of time when water can neither advance nor fall away.

(I suppose that would be why I've found myself unable to speak or move.)

-lisa, 31 July, 2012

Close (a poem)

When you were small
and something was amiss
I would hold you

Sweet salty smell
the top of your warm head
tucked neatly under my chin

You might remain there
only minutes before
the world settled again

(and off you'd go)

Tonight you're too far away
and too grown up
to wander in, pad-foot clad in jammies

But you walk into my thoughts
and wake me
just the same

In the quiet after
a welcome rain
I open my eyes and pray

This is how
I hold you
now

-lisa, 1 October, 2011

a few of you, so far away

if i could choose
i would not be this far
from you

the way your eyes light
and your laugh
spills out

there are days
when it makes sense
some how

the long flights
the enormous cost
the loss

i'm afraid, though, that
today is not among
those days

Stripping the Beds (or I hate it when they leave)

The boys took their leave
One by one they packed their bags
Their funny things

Half made drums
A snakeskin
Shoes made from old motorcycle tires

One by one
They waved goodbye
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday

A bad week, really

And I am left to strip their beds
To laugh at the remnants
And wonder at the quiet

But they are off to good things
Adventures, life
A good week, really

(And can I honestly complain?)

lisa
27 August 2010