Lost poems

I read an interview Maria Shriver did with Mary Oliver.  It was a wonderful window into one of my favorite accessible poets.  Like many poets, Mary is at work on several poems at a time.  Mary, it seems, is never without a writing implement and paper, even at night.  I admire this.  This is not me.  I lose poems all day long. 

They litter the streets we walk

When we don*t have a mind

To catch them,

To open our hands,

Not let them slip

Through our fingers.

When we simply do

Other things.

I lose poems

All day long.

They cover the floor

Of my office

Under the altar.

They walk the aisles

Of Trader Joes

Or sit on shelves.

Sometimes I read a poem

Someone else has caught.

I think:

That poem

Might have been mine.

Still

I am glad

Someone

Caught it,

Picked it up,

Took it off the shelf,

Even

Brought it home

And fed it.

I have been known to leave my wallet behind

This morning felt like a comedy of errors.  Every time another thing happened, I reminded myself to remain calm.  The wallet was not lost.  Somehow I knew it was not lost, or stolen, or strayed. Somehow I knew I would find it and slap myself upside the head and say Of course.  I forgot I put it in the car before talking with a parishioner in the parking lot.  Of course.  Now I am home, awaiting the outcome of last night*s ankle mishap.  My husband and daughter will be home soon, I hope.  Me?  I am calmly sitting in a chair, writing this, eating a Portillo*s hot dog, which is not a healthy lunch option  My wallet is in the kitchen, next to the stove, with my sunglasses.

I have been known

To leave my wallet

Behind,

Especially

When my mind

Is otherwise occupied,

Like this morning

In church.

I traced

And retraced

And retraced

Steps.

After I searched

Every possible place,

I found it

Where I*d carefully placed it.

After a scavenger hunt

Of every place it might possibly be,

It was

Of course

Where I had placed it.

Not accidentally

Laid it down,

Mind you,

But instead

Placed it,

Carefully even.

I have been known

To leave my wallet

Behind.

This morning

In church

I took care to place it

On the front seat

Of the car.

Only then

Did I go searching

Everywhere else.

The order of things

I often get reminder notices from my brain.   I have not had a generalized seizure in over a year (Yay!).  I know the medication helps, but I also know I have learned to pay attention to the warning signs.  I continue making plans.  I also realize plans may need to change.  I keep my prayer list next to the places I go to chill out.  When I drive, I travel familiar routes.  This allows me to explore the wilderness with my clients.

I shower and dress

For a funeral

Then realize

My brain has ordered

A different day

Than the one

I had planned.

I change back

Into my pajamas,

Pray for the people

I will not see

Today.

This is a lesson

I must learn

Again and again.

Today I may pray

With the windows and doors

Open to the world,

Me in the blue recliner.

Today I may pray

A different way

Than planned.

Such is the order

Of things.

Sometimes it is different

Than I had planned.

Comforting

We find ourselves waxing nostalgic.  All three of us.  Nostalgic in three different ways for three different people as college decisions get closer for the second (the last) child.  We make lists of colleges from most expensive to least expensive, from most selective to least selective.  This morning I determined the school on a mountain is Tennessee is the closest to Roselle.  This is not so strangely comforting.

The closest school

Is on a mountain

In Tennessee.

I remember

In college

I took the Orient Express

From Paris to Athens.

My father told me

He could get anywhere

In the world

In 24 hours.

I thought this odd,

Very odd.

Why-ever would he need

To come see me

In Athens

When I would be home

For Christmas?

Now the closest school

My daughter considers

Is on a mountain

In Tennessee.

It is less than a day’s drive.

This is

Not so oddly

Comforting.

More to be done

I adore the light in the fall.  This fall I adore it more, if that is possible.  In my office under the altar I see the crooked pine out my window as evening falls.  The sun angles different in the fall, more sideways somehow.  It illuminates different parts of things.  This fall I see there is more to be done. I know I only see a small speck.  So I start with the speck.

There is more to be done,

Much more.

I have been given

A tiny glimpse

Of all it entails,

A glimmer,

A sideways shimmer

As the light angles different

This particular fall.

There is more

To be seen

In the fall light:

The crooked pine illuminated

Just so

Out my office window.

There is more to be done,

A possibility or two

Out my office window,

On the bench

Under the pine.

Cookies

This story arrived in my inbox this morning, courtesy of Inward/Outward.  It got me thinking about cookies and tables... and other things.  Like sharing cookies.  Like the larger table we all share.

Because the tea shop was crowded, a man took the other chair at her table and ordered tea. The woman [already seated there] was prepared for a leisurely time, so she began to read her paper. As she did so, she took a cookie from the package on the table, and noticed that the man across from her also took a cookie from the same package. This upset her greatly, but she ignored it and kept reading. After a while she took another cookie. And so did he! This unnerved her and she glared at the man.

While she glared, he reached for the fifth and last cookie, smiled and offered her half of it. She was indignant. She paid her money and left in a great hurry, enraged at such a presumptuous man. She hurried to her bus stop just outside. She opened her purse to get her fare. And then she saw, much to her distress, that in her purse was her own package of cookies unopened.

Told by Walter Brueggemann

Source: Voices of the Night

I believe it is time

To share my cookies.

Simply time

To share.

Yesterday we sat in my office,

Declared it is time

For both cookies and table

To be shared.

This was meant

From the beginning.

My table

My cookies

Are

Our table

Our cookies

The dinner bell has rung.

Dessert has been served

First.

Woe to those who leave the table.

Woe to those

Who find cookies left

In our purses.

Joy abundant to all
who remain at the table.
Joy abundant to all

Who share

The last cookie.

Free car wash

I attended a funeral reception for a man who used to attend the last parish I led as vicar.  I remember the free car wash at that parish, how it was a lesson in freely giving and freely receiving for all involved.  I remember the driver of the motor home who tried to give $2 bills to the children involved in the washing.  They steadfastly refused.  I remember the motor home driver asking for a tour of the church, and then trying to leave money in out of the way places in the building.  Finally he donated a case of water we could hand out to the folk waiting to have their cars washed.  

Of all the things I*ve helped orchestrate

In thirty years of ordained life,

My favorite

Is the free car wash.

Free.

Absolutely free.

We did not take money.

It was not a fundraiser.

If someone wanted to join us

They could.

But it was free.

Absolutely free.

We did not take money.

No money changed hands.

It being a hot day

We sprayed each other

With water

And laughed,

Handed out cups

Of cold water

To those who waited.

We washed BMWs

And vans,

Even a motor home.

It was free

I tell you

Free.

Every time I tell the story

It is lauded as a wonderful effort,

Never to be repeated,

Never emulated

As far as I know.

Free

I tell you

Absolutely free.

Suggested poetry

From time to time, since I have often purchased books of poetry from Amazon, I receive suggestions in my email on who I might read next.  There are many poets I have never heard of. Some mornings, like this one, the suggestions are not helpful. I sampled the beguiling and magisterial poet.  I would name his poetry, simply, creepy.

I awaken

To suggested books of poetry

In my in-box.

They were written by people

I didn*t know

Walk this earth.

They carry titles

Which entice me

To taste a poem,

Just one.

This morning*s collection

Demands

To be spit out.

One poet is named

Intensely ethical.

Another review claims a poet

Beguiling and magisterial.

Of course I would have to read the books

To even begin to understand

What these reviewers mean.

I sample a poem or two

From the list.

Today is a day

To drink coffee,

Eat my breakfast cereal,

Meet with a client or two.

Today is a day to think and speak

In simpler language.

School choice

We are embarked upon the college journey once again, this time with our daughter.   I remember my own journey, its twists and turns to arrive at this particular place.  I hope it will be the same for my daughter... in a good way, of course, but with enough of the unforeseen to make it interesting and surprising and yet, of a piece, every step of the way.

We knocked another school

Off the list

Yesterday.

My daughter*s list

Holds familiar

Anomalies.

There is no telling

The futures

The list holds.

I used to be married

To the rare person

Who knew from beginning to end

The process he would follow.

Most everyone else

Near and dear to my heart

Has walked this way,

Then that,

Then found

Himself

Herself

Outside Eden*s gates

Wandering unknown territory

With a bite of fruit

Left to be chewed and swallowed.

I used to be married

To someone who knew

From beginning to end

The exact path

He would follow.

Now I am married

To someone else.

I wouldn*t have it

Any other way.

Hospitality and love are free

Nearly thirty years in the priesthood informs what I do as a counselor in my office under the altar, next to the Parents' Day Out (PDO) program.  Of course it does.  I offer what I can, when I can. As I grow in the combination of priest and counselor and spiritual director and writer, I find I can offer more and more, even as I can receive more and more from others and from the world.  My own therapist/supervisor/consultant/spiritual director reminded me of this recently.  I pay for the sessions with him, but the hospitality and love are free.

There is plenty

To do

In my office

Under the altar.

First sessions are consultations

And free.

I have raised my regular hourly rate.

Since the ATM machine delivers

Twenty dollar bills,

I continue to charge

In multiples

Of twenty.

The church rate has now gone

From three-quarters

To half-price.

I do not take insurance.

I will never take insurance.

Confessions are heard

Completely free.

I continue to charge nothing

To care.

I still care for those

Who have moved on.

They are tucked away

In the corners of my heart.

Hospitality and love

Remain

Completely free.

They will keep me occupied

With plenty to do

In my office

Under the altar.

And above.

Begin again

I found a book at Logan Airport.  It was number 18 on the best seller list.  I have not been paying attention to best sellers in recent years.  They are too often a disappointment.  Research shows this Logan Airport book has been on the best seller list for over  a year.  Really?  The title caught me: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs.  How could I not reel it in and at least look into its eyes?  It reminds me of the time I discovered The Very Persistent Gappers of Frip by George Saunders (years ago now) and bought a number of the books when they went on remainder.  I gave them out as Christmas gifts that year.  One, maybe two, of the recipients was as enchanted as I was.  It seems to be the way with books.  Best seller lists are often not the best source for me.  Until, of course, they are.

There was a time

I read new fiction

Voraciously.

Even in college,

Translating Homer,

I fit new books

Between those pages,

Gobbled new authors

To find the few

Who spoke to my whimsy,

Turned the world

Upside down

Inside out;

Authors who said

Think of it

This way

That way

Practice a headstand

While reading.

Don*t go to sleep

Until you find the end,

Begin again.

Fly cast

For books.

Pull them in,

Look fully into their eyes,

Let them go.

Begin again.

Always

Begin again.

The dark. The gray. The wet.

It has been awhile since I have done anything before 7 AM.  This is practice for tomorrow when the doorbell will ring at 7:30 AM and our house will be presented for cleaning.  Of course this means doing a major pick-up tonight.  This morning it all feels, well, jungly.  Is that a word?  We do not live in a rain forest, but still it is warm and wet and gray (now), and green.  Like a jungle, almost.  Thankfully I did not awaken with an 8 foot long crocodile under my bed, like that man in Zimbabwe.  http://gawker.com/man-discovers-he-slept-through-the-night-with-a-monster-1340648603

This morning brings the dark

The gray

The wet.

I would sleep in

But the dark

The gray

The wet

Invited my daughter

To stay asleep

Past her ride to school.

I become her ride.

Of course I drive

A different route.

Strange,

There are at least

Three different ways

To school,

As many as there are drivers

Who live in this house.

Turn here

She says

Go there

She says

There are fewer lights

This way

She says.

I beg to differ

Oh I beg to differ.

Stop yelling at me

She says

In the dark,

The gray.

The wet,

We make it to school

I drive home

Decide the dark

The gray

The wet

Demands a mention.

Vocations week

Back into themed therapy weeks.  Not even just therapy weeks, unless I count myself in this week*s mix. Which of course I do.  Life is in the air. Life brings change and transition with it.

This is vocations week

In my office

Under the altar.

Everyone I see          

Is in

Active transition.

Everyone I see

Above the altar,

On the street,

Is in active transition.

Life is in the air.

Heck

Death is in the air.

They go together

Hand in hand.

This is vocations week.

Everything does not fit

On a resume

I tell them.

I tell myself.

I tell anyone

Who will listen.

This is vocations week

Under the altar.

And above.

Often I forget

Today I ponder what I wrote yesterday and the day before.  And the day before that.  Most often what I write has to do with what catches my attention in the morning.  Simply that. I wonder about returning to preach occasionally, and where and when and how that would be.  I remember my seminary preaching professor who declared: Every sermon is not a sonnet.  My sermons have never been sonnets.  Neither are my poems.  With the exception of the haiku, and an occasional villanelle, I write freely and shortly. Sermons too.  

Often I forget

What I wrote yesterday.

Once it is released

Into the world,

It becomes part of the whole.

It becomes part of the mosaic,

Or perhaps

It is grout.

No telling where

It will end up;

No telling

If it will be stone

Or binder

Or maybe

A place holder

To be discarded

When something better
Comes along.

A sermon or two

Years after I graduated from college and seminary and became a parish priest, a college friend bemoaned the fact that I was not writing poetry anymore.  I told him all my writing energy was devoted to producing a sermon every week.  He is not a church person.  It made no sense to him.  To my friend sermons were momentary vehicles. Poems are somehow the real thing.  Now I blog every day.  It is somehow homage to the fact that God is working everywhere, all the time.  I hope to capture a bit of it every day.  Now I have friends who bemoan the fact that I am not preaching.  These friends are fewer and fewer as time has gone on.  As clergy we do not hear one another preach anyway.  Now, after leaving parish ministry in 2007, most folk have forgotten I ever did preach.  Now I also remember that I landed in the pews of one parish that knew how to really listen to sermons.  I consider new possibilities.

In the midst

Of dropping off

The forgotten key at school;

Considering new recipes

For kale;

Watching the cat

Asleep in the sun;

I think perhaps

I may have a sermon or two

Waiting to be preached

To a larger gathering

Than one or two.

After all

I did this for years

Almost every Sunday.

I think a sermon or two

May be in hiding

Around the corner,

Waiting to jump out,

Catch me by surprise.

I think a sermon or two

May demand

A thing or two:

A soapbox
Perhaps

A pulpit.

The One Lost Sheep

Good sermon this morning on Jesus going after the one lost sheep and leaving the other 99 behind.  I always liked the story.  Still, I will always think of this man who showed up for a few Sundays, then disappeared over the summer.  He called me one day, irate that I had not gone after him, and left the other 99 behind.  I still wonder where he went.

I remember the One Lost Sheep

From two parishes back.

This man strayed

From every congregation

In the western suburbs.

He landed in mine.

He was disturbed that no one

Had found him

Over one summer.

He called,

Irate,

Said he was

The One Lost Sheep.

I had not left

The other 99 in the wilderness

To find him.

We were no good

Either.

I had not been Jesus

To him.

I still think about

That One Lost Sheep.

I wonder whether

He was ever found,

Having strayed from every parish

In the western suburbs.

Even mine.

Me and the prayer shawl

I am here in my prayer chair, my writing chair, the chair I bought over 23 years ago now.  The cat is sound asleep on the bag I use to collect the CSA vegetables every Wednesday.  I make sure to return it to the exact same spot between vegetable collections.  It holds the heat of the sun during the week.  I am not sure how the shoes appeared in this poem, except that they are part of the picture.  I may complain about my daughter*s pile next to the front door.  My pile is behind the bedroom closet door.  Yes, we are related.

Me and a prayer shawl

In the blue chair,

Next to the cat,

Asleep in the sun.

He sleeps

On top of the vegetable bag.

It couldn*t be better.

I know this place at home.

The pile of shoes

Beside the front door

Has grown.

All the shoes belong

To my daughter.

My pile lives

In the closet upstairs.

Me with the prayer shawl.

The cat.

My beloved sleeps

Upstairs,

Next to the closet

With my shoes

Piled

Not so neatly.

Most likely

It could not be better.

It is sufficient.

It is good enough

The way it is.

Passing

I have had this happen with childhood friends.  I find myself wishing it was different.  I know we all move at different rates, different speeds.  Sometimes we stand on the bridge or dam (and wave).  Sometimes we are the ones that move on.  Sometimes it*s tough to tell anyone, even ourselves, where exactly we are anchored. This should probably not be a surprise, yet still it is. Sometimes I would like to tie tells (strips of cloth) to the backyard trees to figure out which way the wind is blowing.  This poem, I think, should have been about sailboats.  Too late now.

Sometimes it seems

More time passes

For one

Than another.

It is hard to tell

Where I am

On the time spectrum,

Whether I have gone ahead

Or been left behind.

I simply know

We no longer live

In the same zone.

Now I wonder

If we ever did.

We tell stories

About ourselves.

It seems perhaps

Too much water has gone

Under the bridge.

Someone stands

On that bridge.

Someone is in the water,

Floats with the current

Like Poohsticks.

Too much water has gone

Over the dam.

Someone is left

Standing on that dam

Waving to the one

Who has moved on.

I wonder whether the person

I remember

Has changed dramatically

Or whether it*s me

On the bridge

On the dam.

I know

It could go

Either way.

One more meeting

There is nothing like lunch with an old friend, a friend with whom I can breathe.  Nothing like it to look forward to.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Remember who I am.  Remember who she is.  Lay the past on the table.  Weave new dreams around the salad.

One more meeting

Then Sweet Tomatoes for lunch

With a friend

I have not seen in years.

One more meeting

And I can breathe in,

Not have to start over

From scratch.

Breathe out the almost ten years

That have happened

Since.

Then begin again

Like everyone seems to do

Come September.

Take a breath

Then

Take another one.

Then

Keep breathing.

How do you do it?

I attended prayer group yesterday.  This was my first time with the group.  It was different from other prayer groups I have attended.  This prompted the beginning of today*s poem.  Then I thought about my family in a restaurant.  Usually we all order different things.  Sometimes the food is particularly good.  Sometimes it is particularly bad.  My beloved always wants to share his, and have a bite of mine.  Sometimes he says This is awful... want a bite?  Every family has its jokes.  This is one of ours.  Still, in the best spirit of sharing, it is best when it goes both ways.

I want to ask

How do you do it?

Truth be told:

I want to be asked

The same.

Usually I find the good questions

Go both ways.

They contain

The longing to know,

And

The yearning to be known.

I desire to share

What has been offered

On the plate

That is my life.

How do you do it?

Would you like to try

What I am having?

I*d appreciate

A sample

Of what*s on your plate.

It looks delicious.

Try a bite of mine.

Mission creep

My beloved gave me the title for this poem.  It is a term apparently attributed to many US political endeavors overseas.  It is no less true here at home.

In this,

My recuperation week

From intensive walks

On old home turf;

In this,

My week returned

To the place I now

Call home,

In this week

I find three new meetings

When I only knew

About one.

The very simple offer

To assist with pastoral care

Grew into two more meetings

With absolutely no telling

What will happen

Next week.

Freedom

If I'd really thought ahead, I would have brought my hiking boots.  I didn't.  I spent my time in Boston ten steps behind the other three in the group.  I only tripped and fell once.  It*s amazing what counts for accomplishment.  It*s also amazing what counts for freedom.  I declare today a free day.

These feet

Walked the Freedom Trail

On Saturday.

These feet

Are completely done in.

They do not want to walk

Anywhere at all

This week.

They may limp short distances.

Really they do not want to walk

At all.

These feet

Are happy

To be propped up

For the morning,

Next to the cat

Asleep in the sun.

These feet

Are free for the morning.

Completely free.

Making connection

Miles to go before we take the plane tonight.  Still curious to me how this place feels like home.  Yes, I did live here before... but there is something about the water that connects everything... even the drainage ditch behind the house in Illinois.  Today brings three more connections that I know about, but I imagine there are always more connections to make.

The river flows outside our window

Sixteen floors up.

It is Monday.

We will check out

Of this place

Before we check in

To three more things:

College.

College.

Airport

To fly home.

This home business

Is curious.

I used to be anchored

On the other side

Of this river.

Rivers flow

As they always do.

This river somehow connects

To all the rest,

Even the drainage ditch

On the other side

Of the backyard fence

At home.

They*re all connected

The home bits and pieces

Are all connected.

Homecoming

Looking at college possibilities this weekend.  I had other plans for Sunday morning.  My daughter wanted to attend the church on Harvard Square.  It is the same one at which I preached a candidating sermon for a position at a parish in Boston over twenty years ago now.  Today was homecoming Sunday.  We sat in the back.  Turns out the person sitting two pews in front of us is the daughter of a friend.  Of course she is.  Draw us in, indeed.  Draw us in.

I sat the other side

Of the pulpit this morning.

Last time I saw it was twenty years ago

On a winter night.

A homeless man approached

As the table

Was set.

I watched from behind

The altar.

The man approached me

With grace,

Told me how he was so sorry

He had missed my sermon.

Thank you

I said.

And now it*s time

To go sit down.

Communion is about to begin.

Today we sat in the back,

My daughter and I.

It was homecoming Sunday here

Just like it was

Back home.

The choir sang

Draw us in the Spirit*s tether

Just like the choir sang

When I left East Lansing

23 years ago.

Inter-linkage

We arrived in Boston yesterday to look at colleges.  We are staying in a hotel in Cambridge.  Our room is on the 16th floor.  It overlooks the Charles River.  The rowers practice on the river.  All night I dreamed of churches.  Yesterday Jane Greenspan died in Cape Cod.  She was a pillar of St. Luke's and St. Margaret's (SLAM) before she died.  I dreamed all night of people coming and going.  I forgot this place feels like home.

Cambridge feels like home.

The rowers are rowing

On the Charles.

I remember I learned to kayak

Here.

News of people

I have not seen in years

Reminds me

Of our inter-linkage,

Our inter-lockage.

I dreamed a dream last night

Of the church I left,

Now closed.

It was filled with people

From other churches

I have served,

All in the process of leaving

And arriving.

They spoke about

Their travels,

Rowed up and down the Charles River

In teams.

They kayaked

Singly.

I awoke this morning

Found out one left us

Yesterday

From Cape Cod.

This place feels like home

Inter-locked

Inter-woven

Even the kayakers

Take their part

In the whole.

Get your crab apples later

Today has been a day of reversals.  My calendar was gone this morning.  Where could it be?  Who or what was to blame?  My beloved packed it with his things this morning.  No one is to blame.  It was lost and now it is found.

The coyote was clearly eating something.  The chipmunk was chirping.  I do not speak coyote or chipmunk.  Turns out the coyote was eating crab apples.  Turns out this is a normal perfectly natural thing for coyotes to do.  Who knew?  Not me.  Now I do.  I want to invite the coyote back but he has gone.  Maybe he*ll return over the weekend when my beloved is home.  I have told him about the crab apples.  Of course this does not mean the chipmunks are safe.

I thought the coyote

Was eating a chipmunk,

A perfectly natural normal thing

For a coyote to do.

Still

I wanted him gone,

Out of my sight.

Not in my backyard.

When I looked further,

The coyote had been eating

Crab apples.

The chipmunk chirps told everyone

Coyote in the backyard

Steer clear.

Get your crab apples

Later.

These were not chipmunk chirps

Of grief,

Of loss.

No

These were chirps that announced

Coyote presence

Get your crab apples

Later.

Coyote

I think the coyote was eating something small.  As I watched him, a chipmunk chirped incessantly. Wild kingdom continues to live in our backyard.  I would prefer everyone ate lunch somewhere else.

Wild kingdom continues to live

In the backyard.

Right of the crab apple,

Behind the garage

A coyote stands

Plain as day

Right as rain

Bold as you please.

Thankfully our cat

Lives indoors.

The coyote and I

Stare each other down

Except neither of us

Stands down.

Eventually

Points made,

We both leave

At exactly the same moment.

He might have walked through

Any of three open gates.

Instead he slips through a hole

Under the fence.

Discombobulation

I would prefer to have other things occupy my mind.  When something vital, like a professional calendar, goes missing, all the creative spots go missing as well.  They are taken up with anxiety. My daughter and I leave this afternoon with a friend and friend*s mother to visit schools in Boston. We all have different ideas of what such things mean: trips and college visits et al.  Meanwhile, the floors are being cleaned downstairs.  I cannot locate my calendar, which has our flight arrangements clipped into the front of it.  I think I must have put it somewhere safe.  Right.

I sit upstairs

While the floors are being cleaned

Underneath me.            

It began

It continues

As a day

Of discombobulation.

I try to settle

In an upstairs chair,

Green,

In the bedroom.

This room is already clean.

My calendar

Has gone missing.

I know it is somewhere

Downstairs.

Perhaps I can blame

The cat.

I consider the implications

Of a calendar

Lost in thin air.

I reconstruct it

In my head.

Again I settle back

Into the green chair.

I would like to write creative things.

Not this.

Shift

We have all had versions of this conversation.  Sometimes we are the questioner.  Sometimes we are the listener.  Sometimes we give advice.  Sometimes we don*t.  Sometimes these conversations are on the phone late at night.  Sometimes they are over the dinner table.  Roles are reversed. Sometimes merely hearing such things out of our own mouth, out of the mouth of a loved one makes a difference.  Sometimes the shift comes overnight in our sleep.  I have learned there*s no telling exactly when.  I have learned... to put in the time... and wait.

How can I make her see a counselor?

He asks.

You can*t.

I say.

She could see my counselor,

He says.

No, but you could see

Your counselor,

I think to myself.

I know this is going

Nowhere at all.

I have had this conversation

Before.

I know the lines by heart.

I know we will have a version

Of this conversation

Again.

Strange enough

I know it is actually

Not hopeless.

A shift will surely come.

It will not be my shift.

It will not be her shift,

But his.

A cold that refuses to be called Common

Sometimes an illness claims a life of its own.

Yes this counts

As an end of summer

Cold.

It has me dragging around,

Hoping that a hot shower

Will make a dent.

Yes this counts.

This cold has me by the throat

And nose.

This cold says

I have blamed

Mere allergies

Too long.

Call me by my given name

It says,

Accuracy is paramount.

I am not a simple spell

Of allergies.

I will not be called

“Common.”

I am your End of Summer Cold.

Hot showers be damned.

One more step

And so it continues.  I watch my friends drop their children off at college.  I think we*ll be doing the same with our second child same time next fall.  Right now it*s the 250-500 word essay for the Common Application.  This is something which did not exist when our son applied.  Then again this child writes her own book, even as the first one did.  It does not fit in 250-500 words.  No one can write their book in 250-500 words.

Every day brings one more step

In letting go.

At Christmas

His senior year

In high school

Our son gave my beloved and me

A book on parents

Letting go

Of grown children.

Every parent

Every child

Writes his own book,

Writes her own book.

Everyone

Has advice to give

The other.

Still

The letting go happens

One step at a time.

This advice

Is not in book form.

This advice I think
May even be

Universal.