Category Archives: Poems

household gurus

My yoga happens in the middle of things —
playtime,
bedtime,
mealtime,
in the middle of the house.

I am in downward facing dog
and the little ones run toy cars
over the side table,
over the piano bench,
over my back and leg.
They put their little hands on my waist,
their sweet foreheads on my side,
hugging me because I am there.
They camp out beneath my upside down “v”
so that my jump forward becomes a leap, or a walk.
They stand, sit, or squat at the top of my mat,
and now my forward bend is many breaths longer than I planned.
They show me where to go deeper
and when to breathe slower
and how to move faster.

I am in corpse pose
as my husband walks by —
he lifts, lengthens, and releases
each leg in turn,
coaxes my shoulder blades into lying flat,
holds my head and extends my neck.
He’s been paying attention.

When I come back to sitting
the little ones bring the strap for my rolled up mat
saying, “here ya go” and giggling.
My husband smiles at me from the chair.

I am loved.

Some opportunities to love

Some opportunities to love
are tiny and pass beneath our hands unnoticed.
Some opportunities to love
are great and frighten us into running, unable to look them in the eye.
Some opportunities to love
are persistent and flow through our days, unyielding, water over rock.

I pray
to see the tiny
meet the great
and jump into the persistent —
my spirit not worn —
polished.

I hear the wind in the oaks and locusts

I hear the wind in the oaks and locusts behind me but feel nothing.
Then it hits me
wicking my hair away from my ears.
It carries the smack of collisions–
of bat and ball, of ball and glove–
and shouts, deep shouts
of “strike,”
“out,”
even the old “atta boy! ”

Trucks, cars, and vans rumble past the fields,
tires crunch over the gravel in the lot,
sweat coats my skin when the clouds move away from the sun, and
bumps prickle along my arms when the clouds block the bright heat.

No doubt my boy is spitting sunflower seed shells on the dugout’s dirt floor
looking through the chain-link fence
joining in with the shouts of his teammates
waiting for his turn at the plate,
waiting to swing or hold steady-
always waiting,
always a decision to be made.

A drop of rain hits the back of my neck
when he comes up to bat.
He waits for the pitcher to check the runners.
He waits to see if the ball comes through the strike zone.

In the end, he walks to first,
hustling.

He has a good eye.

Years from now he’ll remember some of this. He’ll remember stealing second on a passed ball. He’ll remember the feeling of sunflower seeds tucked into his cheek. He’ll remember the smell of the dirt, the sound of the bat hitting the ball, the feel of the ball landing in the glove.

He’ll probably remember pitch counts, and innings, and outs, and scores, all facts that fly from my memory as a matter of course, the way dandelions let go their fluffy seeds to the wind.

Years from now, when the wind gusts far off and he hears the leaves rustling before he feels the air on his skin,
he will tell someone the details
the way his dad has told me.