Weather prayers

I remember standing in a circle praying for some drizzle, but not too much, just enough to cool us off, but not to shut us down.

I have often had
Good luck
With weather prayers
It seems
To be a time
I find connection
With what
Is to come
Snow
Rain
Drizzle
Sun
I do not know
Hail
Or tornadoes
But who would want
Good luck
With those.

Cooler near the lake

Of course the question is always "Cooler than what?"

Every one
Of the ten thousand lakes
Had some breeze
Still
Everyone's lake
Counted as
The Only Lake
There was.
Anyway
It was always cooler
There
No matter
How many lakes
You counted.
It was always cooler
There,
At least in summer.
Perhaps in winter
It was warmer
but I have never
Thought about it.

Pleasant Lane, no exit

Another in the sign series. Another in the wonderment series which continues on, seemingly forever.

On the way home
From my last position
I passed a street
Or rather
A lane
Which had an entrance
But no exit
Unlike the open-ended lane
I live on
The entrance
And exit
Are exactly alike,
No need for such signs
Here
No need for pleasantness
Or unpleasantness
Just openness
On both ends.

Sidewalk ends

The sign made me laugh for years. It was clear the sidewalk ended. Who needed a sign to say so?

The sign seemed
Un-necessary.
It could have meant
Almost anything:
Not our fault
If you fall on your face
Or
Here be monsters
Or
Adventure lies beyond
This point

Sticks

Different perspectives on sticks

One Christmas
I fell in love
With red sticks
From the florist catalog
I remember
They had red berries.
I sent them
To my mother
Who ever after
Referred to the Christmas
I gave her
Sticks.
We appreciated
Different things.
In spring
I wait
For pussy willows
To arrive
At the store.
We keep them
Until the catkins
Have finally
Dropped off
Some years green leaves sprout
Some years
Not.
We keep them
Nonetheless,
I like sticks,
When my daughter
Was small
She kept a stick collection
Under the red bud
She is my daughter,
We appreciate different things
Too
But sticks
No.

Angels

For Courtenay, and me, and whoever needs angels and puppets. The clean-out pipe is fine, left behind.

Your office
Held angels
Mine had a basket
Of puppets,
A clean-out pipe
In the center
Of the floor
Under the carpet.
Your angels hung
In the office window
My pipe
Was invisible.
The puppets
Held court,
Moved with me
To the next place.
Your angels
Are now
In North Carolina.

Warm enough

Lovely time of year, Warm enough, yet not too warm.

School must be over
Children yell
With occasional dogs
In between
Windows open
Finally warm enough
Cats curled
In the breeze'
Afternoon nap
Though almost time
For supper.
One of my favorite times
Of year
Warm enough
Yet not
Too warm
Windows open
Cats curled
Children and dogs
On the wind..

On to the next thing

Our daughter graduated from college yesterday. Our chests were "puffed with pride." I never quite knew what that expression meant. Still, it sounds good.

So proud
So proud
We witnessed her
Walk on
To the next thing
Across the stage
On
To the next thing.
The next thing
Is different
For everyone.
Some think
They know exactly
What comes next.
Still
So proud
So proud
She takes one step
After another
Across that stage
So proud
So proud
We will see
Where she goes next.

Escape

Escape
Is written
On the front
Of my walker.
A curious word.
Where am I going?
What do I escape from?
What do I escape to?
A curious word.
So many meanings.
Might I name the walker
Something other
Than the name
It arrived with?
She will be named
Belle
Her name
Has no limits.

Walker bell

What do you want for Mother's Day? My beloved asked. It came to me that a bicycle bell would be lovely. It is a Schwinn bicycle bell. It is perfect.

My new red walker
Got a bicycle bell
For Mother's Day.
Now I have to figure out
Where I can ring it.
When church was out
Yesterday
I rang it.
Now I walk the halls
At home
Startle the cats
Soon
They will
Get used to it.

Comfort zone

Where is your comfort zone? He asks. I wonder what the answer is. Perhaps I lack such a thing. I know this is not true. Secretly, I know somewhere, this is not true. It hides between the crab apple and the red bud.

Between the red bud
And the crab apple
Blooming pink and purple
In spring
Yellow in fall
Me in between.
I hang with
The goldfinches
And robins
The occasional hawk.
The comfort zone
Of spring thunderstorms
Throw worms back
Into the earth
From whence
They came
The comfort zone
Of earth
Between my toes
Squishing.
The comfort zone
Of birds
Calling
The comfort zone
The comfort zone
The comfort zone
More
Way more
Than one.

Crab apple year

Last year
Was not
A crab apple year
The animals have hope
For this year.
The petals
Have begun
To fall
They blow off
The tree
In the breeze
After all
Crab apples
Are one of the reasons
We stayed in this house.
Everyone
Eats crab apples:
Squirrels
Foxes
Coyotes
Probably skunks
And possums too.
Our backyard
Offers a feast
Of crab apples
In late summer
Early fall
Every one
It seems
Eats crab apples.
We stayed here
To watch.

We count the lawns

Every year the Chem Lawn people knock on our door and tell us we must rid our lawn of clover and crabgrass and dandelions. We have yet to do so.

We count the lawns
(Like ours)
Which have let
Their dandelions grow.
This year
We notice
The goldfinches
Thrilled
Eat the seeds,
Spit out the fluff
If indeed
Goldfinches
Can spit.
At any rate
Fluff
Is the aftermath
Of their meal.

Women are taught not to speak

My sisters will understand whereof I speak. This I know.

Women are taught
Not to speak
So I went to seminary
To learn
New ways.
What is a woman priest?
The question came
And came
And came again.
Who is that
Behind the altar?
Behind the pulpit?
I spent years
Answering the question.
I took my turn.
Now other sisters
Take their turn.
I am glad for the others
Lined up
Behind me,
Arms outstretched
At the altar,
Voices clear
In the pulpit.
Few exclaiming
In surprise
But we could hear you.
We were sure
We would not
Be able to hear you.

Velcro

Making accommodations.

The altar guild
Attached the frontal
To the altar
With velcro.
Pregnant
With
My second child
I stood behind
The altar.
Every time
I moved
The alb stuck
To the velcro.
Rip
Rip
Rip
Part of every Sunday's
Liturgy
Until I determined
It was not
A holy sound.
The altar guild
Complied
With this priest,
We have never had
A pregnant priest before
They said.

Stories from a distance

I am now humming From a distance the world is blue and green. 

Oh so many stories
Will I ever see them
From a distance?
I realize
It may take years
To gain
That proper distance
But then
I have never been
A proper priest
By virtue
Of my gender
By virtue
Of my humor
By virtue
Of my office
Under the altar
Will I ever
Be proper?
Is propriety
To be desired?
So many stories
To be sorted
So many stories
To be told
So many stories
To be held
Dear.

Last word

Whether she believed in me, or not, she had the last word.

You know
She didn't believe
In women clergy
The son said
After I anointed his mother
As she lay dying.
I had seen her eyes
Widen.
She never would fly
On an airplane
With a woman pilot
He said,
At her funeral
I began the sermon
And hail
Rained down
Dented every car
In the parking lot.

Buds

Looking for signs in unlikely places

They have begun
Signs and possibilities
Of spring
First
Is always
The red bud
It sprouts flowers
Off its trunk
Not like the others
But we're all different
That way
Not like the others
Yet still
The same.