In the dark and quiet
tucked under the weight
of winter blankets
I try to vanquish the chill
that makes this night ache

from his sound sleep
he stirs briefly
rolling toward me to his back
I whisper
the cold won’t let me sleep

there’s no answer
his arm is his reply
he sleepily opens it
as a silent invitation
to snuggle

relaxing to the drum of his heart
breathing the scent of his skin
I nuzzle in his warmth
and feel myself sinking
into his slumber

the best parts of love are unspoken

When I was twenty — his coats were hung 
on the coat rack in the foyer 
we had no closet until he built one ten years later
as a gift to my sense of order  

When I was thirty — I felt the crush of 
society’s housekeeping judgments
I nagged him each day to stop using the coat rack 
to put his coats on hangers in the nice new closet
but he is a man of tenacious habits
and I am a woman of unrelenting persistence

When I was forty — my patience had diminished
it was time to teach him a lesson
I took the clutter of his coats on the coat rack  
and sometimes threw them on the closet floor or
(on days of PMS) the front lawn

When I was fifty — I decided 
to make this a spiritual practice  
I would hang all his coats in the closet on hangers
where I knew they properly belonged
I did this dutifully every day for over ten years
trying to melt the icy loathing in my heart 

At sixty — I had an epiphany
he likes the coat rack :  I like the closet
who’s to say one is more right-headed than the other
and since it’s me who likes the pristine foyer
and since I want to respect his right to rack his coats
I asked his permission to hang his coats in the closet for him

he said: that’s okay, I’ll do it. 

and he did 
when I’d see the rack
no clutter
never more than one coat
and many lessons

Now I’m past seventy — and when I walk past 
the coat rack on my way to the kitchen
I see a solitary coat 
and I cherish it  
knowing this day
could be the last time he hangs a coat
knowing
if it is the last
I will never move it

After the failures
and after the falls
I look up
knowing I’ll rise

knocked down
beaten and battered
laid broken at the feet of my foes
I look up
and know it still

I sank into sorrow
when they died
a valley so deep
only a sliver of starlight
pulled me back to my feet
but I stood again

we fall
so we can get back up
feeling hope tilt our head upward
feeling love lifting us to stand again

even from the darkest depths
look up
love will lift you

When I was a child, a wife, a mother
there was no phone in my pocket
no pinging messages 
TV ended at midnight
stores were closed on Sunday
there was silence and stillness
and we slept a full night

it took 3 months to use a roll of film 
24 pictures
8 in focus
and you had to wait days and days to see them

life was quiet
slow
deliberate
undiluted
uninterrupted

today
in the speed and dross of our culture
the sound of the wind is muffled
life is too distracted to notice the stars
too busy to bask in the smiles of children

by living fast and hard
I miss the depth in my tiny speck of a life

living is my sacred work
it requires my full attention

You are a slice of fate
a genetic potion of visions and gifts

be quiet enough to know their whispers
be brave enough to go where they take you

be your own inspiration

Maybe four?
I guess fifty!
seriously? seven hundred.
the way things are going I think this is the last one.

when we were 17 
and started dating
we invented a toast

one says:
“To another Friday night!”

the other asks:
“How many more do you think we’ll have?”

it started as a veiled yet effective
way to check the atmospheric 
pressure between us

still today
2,778 Fridays later
we’re never quite sure

I ask: what do I like?
He asks: what do I want?

as we pluck each bloom
gathering them like trophies
our hearts whisper:

don’t be seduced
by dying bouquets
or you’ll miss love

it’s not adorning life with flowers
true love is their daily tending

chose to be the gardeners
then you will find it

I think about cooking when I cook
of French bakers and exquisite beauty
of pioneers and iron pots of stew

I think of Kathleen’s Christmas cookies
of sushi chefs and pure perfection
of cave women over an open fire

I think of the unending legacy of mothers
who cook and cook and cook
showing love with food 

I think about cooking when I cook
but I mostly think about love

Five decades of disarmament
defenseless from attack
unready for the arrows
or the knife stabbed in our back

vulnerable and helpless
no guns to stop the gain
unguarded from our harshest words
unfortified from pain

trusting in our kindness
fighting is the sin
trusting in our loving hearts
assures we both will win

(for my grandchildren)

While I bake I think of you
our one love from hearts of two

while I’m waiting as they cool
I hope my icing makes you drool

when I frost them —pink or red
I think of words which should be said

I think of poems that I could write 
about the way you kiss goodnight

when I sprinkle little hearts
each one is like a cupid’s dart

when I wrap them with a bow
I remember that you know

because you are so very smart
you know you have your Granny’s heart

and always will forevermore
it’s what her cookie love is for

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

If you know someone who you think would enjoy these poems, please feel free to forward this email to them. If you’re reading this poetry letter for the first time, you can subscribe here to get ten poems emailed to you at the beginning of each month.