The Only Home is Colorado

mountain views bring peace
 better than a city day
 our summer freedom
 
 camping in nature:
 reminder of what matters–
 family connections
 
 weekend getaway:
 my moose, their antlers, our love
 better than the beach
 

Refocused

with a broken fridge,
 limitations on dry ice,
 and carpool circles
 
 to pick up daughter
 from uncalled-for punishment,
 my Monday sucked ass.
 
 driving home in rain,
 she told me the whole story
 and other teen truths.
 
 then shared her essay:
 perfectly satirical
 (writer at fourteen)
 
 the rain flooded us
 and we laughed until we cried
 knowing that truth hurts.
 

Snow March

because we need this:
 desertification looms
 just beyond the bend
 
 (Trump looms there as well,
 where the ninety-degree March
 made some record highs)
 
 and so? a snow march
 to keep precipitation
 where it belongs: Earth
 

Relationship Rules

my oldest asks for advice:
 What should I text the boy
 whose number my friend got for me?

 (just a pinch of middle school, relived)
 
 Ask him about his weekend,
 tell him you went skiing,
 ask what his favorite foods are…

 
 In a huff, she stomps out of the kitchen,
 her adolescent heels too stubborn for her old mum.
 
 That is terrible advice!
 I won’t say any of those things!
 

 How many successful relationships have you had?
 (my attempt at middle school banter)
 
 To which the youngest,
 just ten and always listening,
 banters back,
 Technically, Mama, you’ve only had one–your marriage. All the rest were epic fails.
 
 Touché, my smart-alec girls,
 for always knowing the brutal truth

Shards

an afternoon wind
 blew in a flurry of texts
 and opened this door–
 
 it knocked down a glass
 from our dishwasher-less rack
 (because all things break)
 
 it sent me spinning
 on my endless carpool trip
 (keeping up with kids)
 
 the sun was shining
 on my student-made pastry,
 unaware of shards.
 
 i swept up pieces,
 circled back to get daughter
 and wash more dishes.
 
 baklava melted
 like rays of afternoon sun
 in each of our mouths
 
 (a reminder that
 gusts of wind, circling drives
 are just shards of days)