being loved

Filling the Vase

I used to stand in our galley kitchen, feet planted in tadasana,
peeling the tough skin from grapes and cutting the pulp into quarters,
and I marveled at my blessings.

Today I stand in the same kitchen,
haphazardly in tadasana,
making quesadillas
baking cookies
while the babe pops in
from the yard with
dandelions and clover
for my vase,
and then again
to say
“I love you,”
and again
with fallen
petals,
and I
still marvel,
how a boy
sends Time
flying.

Every Day

Choosing joy must be like breath,
constant, necessary.

So, a thousand times I love you,
a thousand times I love you, too.

Being loved is like this:
“I love you, Mom,”
and like this:
“Arrrhgrrh! You never let me do anything!”
and like this:
“Mom, I don’t ever want you to die.”

Being loved is like wind off the ocean,
harsh and constant,
invigorating and powerfully wild.