Trout

The family now tells me stories of the speech therapist loudly asking me where fish live. It is now a family joke. I would like to be a rainbow trout.

When I was in the hospital

The speech therapist asked me

Where fish live.

Being in intensive care

And not focused

On fish

Or water

I did not respond.

Now I think

I would like to be

A rainbow trout

And live

In a fast-flowing

River.

I went to bed early

Time to play with the kitten. First things first.

I went to bed early,

Slept twelve hours,

Woke to sun and grackles,

A kitten.

She attacked my ankles.

She said

Oh now you’re up

It’s time to wrestle

I think

I wrestled in my dreams

By the Jabbok.

What scars shall I live with?

What life

Shall I claim?

Where shall I speak?

Where shall I be silent?

What voice will I listen to?

What angel is worth

The wrestle?

Next to which river?

The kitten says

Wake up

I am worth your time

Let’s wrestle.

Beef brisket

It's like this... two boats... traveling on different rivers... except they both end up in the Sea... eventually. Meanwhile...on occasion... there's brisket with horseradish... and many, many, mixed metaphors.

Yesterday I spent time

With a friend

Who encouraged me

To make leaps and bounds

In my fifties.

We shared beef brisket

With horseradish.

It seemed I should offer him

Something

Except I wasn’t sure exactly what.

I said

If there’s any way

You think

I can be helpful

Please

Please

Let me know.

He said

I will,

With that twinkle he has,

I will.

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.

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.

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.

Drainage ditch

When is a ditch not a ditch?  When it claims its exotic Amazon roots.  If it flows long and hard enough, it may even reach the ocean.

The drainage ditch rages

Out back,

Splits its edges.

 It holds aspirations

Of exotic proportions.

It claims kinship

With the Amazon

The Nile.

It flows with so many new

River thoughts.

What can it be thinking?

It is a drainage ditch

After all,

Not some river in South America;

Not a tributary

In Africa

Flowing fully

To the ocean.

The sky splits with thunder

In response.

The ditch

No longer a mere ditch

Rages.

Easter Monday

This is the memory Easter Monday will always bring with it.  23 years ago I was a single mom of a three year old.  The church I was serving as priest had a large cross with Christ the King.  It was always veiled during Holy Week.  I do not remember if my son was with me for Easter Sunday that year, but I do remember taking him to church on Easter Monday to show him Jesus was back.  I also remember the trip to the zoo.  And the ducks on the Red Cedar River.

On the day after

Jesus was sprung

From the tomb,

I used to take my young son

To the local zoo.

A river flowed through it.

Ducks stood on the edges,

Floated in place.

On the day

After Jesus

Was sprung

(Or sprang)

From the tomb,

We would take a field trip

To find new life.

The zoo and the river

Were sure bets.

The boy had stared

At the veiled Holy Week cross,

Declared

God all gone.

The boy saw the risen body returned

On Easter Sunday.

On the day after,

Just to be sure,

We took a field trip

To the zoo.

A river flowed through it.