Crossroads

every morning
as i come to my crossroads
just after dawn
touches her fingers to sky,
i make my decision–
an uphill battle
breaking my muscles,
the wind of the highlands
an ever-greater challenge
than the meandering creek

i pedal for simple sights:
the middle-aged blonde
with two matching goldens,
(sometimes leashed, sometimes free)
the bright yellow spot
of a SmartCar, and me
always wondering just where
on the curvacious beauty of
a road i will pass it,
the ever-silent deer
who peer intently at my machine
as they stand cautiously
at the edge of civilization.

and today? a gift,
the top of the most tenuous climb,
the wind bending back leaves
and straightening out flags,
pushing against my will,
when what should cross the road
but a lone pronghorn,
its native spirit leaping
over barbed wire and into
the chaparral, leaving me to
finish my ride, open up
a starvation-induced chocolate
whose wrapper reads,
You are exactly where
you’re supposed to be

(i don’t throw it away,
its aluminum words
imprinted on the crossroads
that may lead me elsewhere tomorrow)

The Colors of My Morning

spotlighted white half circle
against a blanket of navy blue,
shadowy mountains sheathed in pink,
golden streams pouring over bridge,
cotton candy clouds of violet,
calming gray threads stitched into
budding green quilt-work pastures,
deep-set pools of brown nestled
in five heads of beige curiosity.
the moon rests, the sun rises
to the colors of my morning

Birthday Wrappings

you are not here to see the way
the candles light her face,
to gather the joy caught up
in four little girls’ parasols,
to witness the dance from
our second family
(nine-year-old wisdom)

those tears? they are caught
in seven-year-old smiles,
all the pain of the day
tossed with torn-up bits
of birthday wrappings

come with me.
i’ll give you a taste.
it is his heavy-scented cologne
mixed with her mint lip gloss.
it sounds like Spanglish
intertwined with Chinese dance music.
can you smell the chocolate
that will linger in your
mouth until morning?
and the touch
(oh the touch)
warmth that begins in your fingertips
and moves to every capillary
until all you can feel
is a love
you might tell us
never to have.

There Are No Commercials

we have given up on society.
first it was the tv.
we still have internet, a screen, a wii,
but do we fit in?

now i will spend more days
than ever before
enjoying the beauty of a bike.
we will be the only family i know
with one car

it is crazy i know–
it’s my middle name,
the same one who married at twenty,
who said yes to them,
who writes these words
on our girlfriend’s birthday

but if you could see my world?
there are no commercials.
just the wind at my back
as i pedal home,
the lyrics i love,
the audiobooks i long for,
and the peace of knowing
we can keep those dollars
in our pocket
and our children will still have us
at the end of every day

A Million Times More

the emotions are so intense
when the right drink is drunk
when the right song is played
when my girls say the right words

i cannot fathom my life without them
they sit under green blanket
as i write this
my oldest inflecting as needed
the words she learned years ago to read

my middle girl?
the best combination
of crone and imaginative maiden
fantasy worlds mixed with logic

and the baby?
idealism at its best
all the things we’ve dreamed of
wrapped up in a five-year-old’s summary

i cannot fathom
my life
without these girls
(i’ve said it before
i’ve named a poem
i’ll say it a million times more)

Framed Family Photos

i know you couldn’t see it my way
just like some don’t really see
the beauty of the color purple
as fields are filled with flowers

i know you couldn’t grasp
the depth of a love that goes beyond
framed family photos
(it reaches out, it grabs you)

i know what you would say this is
and that is why, that is why
my purple flower photo metaphor
will have to be enough for now

enough to capture the morning light
that shines through the windows of our home,
that brings us a new day that is always,
always more beautiful than the last

I Am Always Amazed

i could hear the howling
i had my gym bag packed
i longed for climate control
(i longed for you more)

throw passion to the wind
they always say that
because they’re not driving
into a twenty-mph-headwind
or feeling it edge along
our backs, our tires
as we ride uphill
faster than the opposite side
pushes down

it’s always those curves along the dam
trying to tell us we can’t make it–
they don’t know us very well, do they?
how i ache to reach the end
where i will have full view of the lake,
where you will take me down
the curvacious path
and rebuild the quads
that have longed for you all winter

i am always amazed
i am always amazed
by how connected i feel
(alone on you)
to the world around me,
how i see the water
and in it my grandmother’s love
for looking at the water,
(insert tears here)
how the right song always comes on
(“Sky Blue and Black” this morning)
how all my stress
slips into the howling wind
as i race for a better time,
how i love,
love,
love you

The Runway of His Dreams

we have left the pretty pink bar,
beauty slipping from sky in silent flakes.
the roads are not icy yet,
but moist in anticipation:
the wipers push away drops
(we have no possibility of sliding)

i watch the silent storm
move into my city,
remembering him in eighth grade,
so tiny and cute,
turning around in social studies
and making fun of the teacher

he is not here,
but rides along the slick streets
inside my mind as i pull back
the cautious, modest man he has become,
a beauty in the Beauty Bar
with his grace and patience,
more perfect than any dress
he could ever create
for the runway of his dreams.

Nothing Short of Art

we sit in central citified sun
sipping smoothies and lattes,
munching on freshly baked croissants
and chatting with strangers
on a day so warm it can’t be
the third week of January
(a beauty we all share
as we peel off our winter coats)

they skip alongside on an impromptu adventure,
moving along the zero street,
playing pig and picking out dates
on ovular stamps in concrete.

we enter the train store
and examine the pure wonder
of details so tiny, humans
standing knee-deep in plexiglass water,
monkeys climbing up a fallen-apart billboard,
and fast-moving trains. one declares,
it is nothing short of art

later i pedal into the wind
around the dam and up the hill
until i see the circular beauty of the lake,
and its curvacious path
interweaves me with a hundred pairs of legs,
all taking advantage
of this day like no other

before i am home
i am home,
and can almost forget
the tears whose all night sting
kept my eyes bleeding till morning,
the two dark, cold miles of separation,
and the hollowness of our words
that find their way
into the poems he wishes i wouldn’t write.

Just Play

we live in a world so unjust
one of hedonistic lust
enough to make our souls rust
we could adjust it–we must

just as we seek what is true
ignoring justice through and through
just as we see ourselves, not you
justice will come in a coup

it will happen just like that
justice’s quick coup d’etat
taking back the welcome mat
stolen justly from fat cat

just as i play with this just
just as we do what we must
just as justice gives its thrust
we must adjust to what is just