Güd wrtr

(for Lindsey Holloway)

And then the magic of May drizzle,
droplets falling like mercy’s gentle rain

as we walk back from a late brunch,
stopping to sniff roses for scent

(pretty pinks, no rosy smell), you
naming plant neighbors on your street,

(the heart-shaped leaves on the lushly
blooming catalpa tree!), the greenery

as familiar to you as the folks who tend it.
Me noticing wee drops polka-dotting

the variegated leaves of hostas as I resolve
to photograph the translucent pearls

decorating the fully blooming cosmos and
calendula in my yard, on the insect-nibbled

plumbago (bugs gotta eat, too) and stockpile
the cool for the sizzling days to come.

Then the hose and I will shower the thirsty ones,
when we will all fondly recall rain,

our occasional visitor, who will by then
have migrated east over the Sierra

and hightailing it north for summer,
as is its habit, without a backward glance.

Lanky, easygoing Louis used to say
when he and other college student
editors were on deadline,

pushing to get an old-fashioned
newspaper pasted up on poster-
board-sized pages that I would

eventually drive 33 miles down
the highway to the printer. Louis could
read the tension in the room that

we advisers didn’t always try to quell,
figuring that a little pressure might
help us all move more quickly.

Though it could also prompt small
eruptions between co-workers who,
we used to say, would not likely

have known each other if they hadn’t
come together to do this specific thing:
learn how to write, edit and produce

a student newspaper at the same time
they had to write, edit and produce
the paper every couple of weeks.

Now at another community college
five years after I retired from mine,
nearly 50 years after I hung up my

bells mallets, a week before the big
performance, shit’s gettin’ serious.
But I admire the way this young music

professor keeps the room calm,
rehearses her wind ensemble with
a light touch, though we all know

we’re far from perfect. I used to tell
my students that there’d never
been a perfect publication,

that there never would be, that we’d
do our best with the time we had,
each issue a kind of practice session,

that no one would die if it was less
than sterling. Which, oddly, calms me
as I move between bells and triangle,

xylophone and crash cymbals,
counting rests and entrances,
hoping to play most of the right

notes at the mostly the right time,
reminding myself how happy I am—
truly—to be here, making music

with others in a band once again.

Never walked a labyrinth before.
What’m I s’posed to do?
Just walk? What if I get lost?
Whaddya mean, I can’t get lost?
I can always get lost.
Just follow the path to the center?
What do I do there?
Anything I want, huh?
Then walk back out?
Huh.
Walking meditation, you say?
Does it help?
Won’t know till I try it, I s’pose.

And he does, his big boots stepping
slowly, stopping when he sees
a small rock heart here and there
on the path, kneels, reaches a
tentative finger to touch it
before rising and going on.

No one has suggested that John do so.
He just does.

I watch him walk his first labyrinth,
hope he picks up a tiny heart,
not only recognizing love on the path
but perhaps being moved to hold it,
take it with him, as people do.
Do with it what they will.

As people are doing all over the world
today, tracing the circular, winding path
leading to center and back out,
perhaps picking up a morsel of peace
and a dose of lovingkindness
with every step.

•••

(On World Labyrinth Day, May 2, 2026, at the
Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento labyrinth)

First, how did the artist
with the spray can reach
the bridge’s undercarriage

to paint “MEDITATE” in a
surprisingly legible hand?
Crawl? Rappel over the side?

And did the artful one imagine
that the word might convince
a passer-by perhaps paddling

below to calm the mind, if not
the body, in mid-paddle? And
might the kayak’d one think,

sure, this is as good a time
as any to close the eyes, feel
the breath, find some peace?

I picture someone hanging
precariously, attempting to
quiet their own monkey mind

and hammering heart as their
hand traces letters onto steel,
arched under a bridge called

Rainbow, over a river called
American, utterly focused,
not thinking of the potential

drop to the water’s surface,
living in that creative moment,
meditatively soaking up the view.

Who am I to say that there are
better ways to deliver a message?
Who’s to say that it wasn’t a deeply

contemplative experience for
the artist—as it has been for me,
comfortably seated, eyes closed,

imagining the scenario,
in the right here,
in the right now?

Well, the ancestors for sure.
Especially the ones who never knew me
but laid down the path I now walk.

The parents, too, who made me
in more ways than the original one,
far from perfect, perfect for me.

The sister I didn’t know I needed,
the steady, can’t-do-without-her
being who shares so much of my DNA.

The first BFF who’s still the BFF.
Also the BFF who declared herself so,
then later vanished into mystery

yet sidles up to me when I’m on
my knees, hands in the dirt,
plant-praying, as she used to say.

The women. The good, good women
who’ve taught me and loved me
and accompanied me always.

The men. The good, good men,
of whom I’ve happily had many,
as lovers, as friends, one husband,

and the beloved who’s stuck with
me for decades. Friends, friends,
friends, long ago and in the now,

the people family, the animal familia,
the acquaintances who left more
of a mark than they’ll ever knew.

Like the young woman at Home Depot
who deployed her little ray gun on
the Johnny Jump Ups I found there

after looking everywhere, who
grinned and said exactly what
I thought as I looked at their tiny

pansy faces: “Aren’t they happy
little things?” I held her eyes
with mine, our fingers touching

as she handed me the receipt.
“They so are,” I said, adding
to myself, “and so are we.”

The tune should have been what I was
practicing that morning on the xylophone
in the basement of the music building,

but no, after my solo session, on my way
to the bank, I started making a list
in my head about the day before me:

Eat a little food.
Plant a little plant.
And write tonight.

And by the time I left the grocery store,
a disco beat bopped inside me,
a KC and the Sunshine Band tune

that refused to leave me alone.
So I shimmied through the parking lot,
as we do when the music seizes us,

remembering KC singing and John Travolta-ing
in white bell bottoms and platform shoes,
doing moves that still dazzle.

Fifty years ago, as a high school band
kid who pooh-poohed disco, I got that tune
stuck in the jukebox of my brain.

Now, transferring marigolds into soft soil,
I sing, “Plant a little plant,” not at all softly,
making up my own lyrics,

knowing that later I’ll have to go listen
to that original melody, one that I’m afraid
I’m stuck with, for better or worse.

•••

If you want to hear it, here’s the 1975 hit, “Get Down Tonight,”
by KC and the Sunshine Band. I apologize in advance if it
gets stuck in your brain, too.

I can count on one hand the people
who’ve called me “darling” in a kind way,
and, it occurs to me now, that

none of them were sleeping with me
or were related to me. They have
all been women older than I

who, I imagine, had someone
in their lives who “darling’d”
them and are passing on

the endearment much in the way
I sometimes “sweetie” someone,
channeling the voice of my

much-older-than-I friend Julia Ellen
who used it to address my twenty-
something self (and others, I’m sure).

This is to thank the darling ones
who utter such old-fashioned
sentiments, often woman to woman,

which, when I hear it, mooshes
my insides in the best way,
a verbal hug from someone who

loves me, often for no good reason,
just because I breathe. And I send it
right back to them, the darlings,

with all my love.

If hope is the thing with feathers,
as Emily so quotably wrote—
dashes and all—

hope is also the thing with flowers,
a profusion of the blooming things
everywhere in my small orbit,

and I must ask the indulgence
of others who listen to my
exuberant praise after

every outing, every walk,
ogling them as though there
have never been such brilliant

colors mixed with birdsong,
such can’t-miss-it hope
bouncing off every new leaf,

every beaming blossom.

•••

And if you’d like to read Emily Dickinson’s famous poem
“hope is the thing with feathers,” you can do so here.

I drive by and sigh with longing,
as if passing a mausoleum,
which it is, in a way—

the rectangular white building
once home to booths and a lively
counter tended by teenaged servers,
ice cream scoops at the ready.

Now it’s silent, abandoned, the man
whose last name it bore long gone,
its parking lot filled with cars of
shoppers at Trader Joe’s next door.

So many of my dead loved ones
are entombed here—my beloved’s
mother who loved the fresh turkey
Jim Burr roasted daily for sandwiches,
chunky bits piled high on sourdough,
adorned with a frill of lettuce, mayo,
jellied cranberry sauce if you
wanted it, dill pickles on the side.

My best friend who’d snare
the corner booth if she arrived first
would order my favorite Jik Jak
frost, a shake-like concoction
delivered in a tall fluted glass designed
for sundaes, a scoop of the chocolate
malt-laced ice cream drooping down
the side.

So many older neighbors arrived
sometimes daily for lunch and fellowship
with others they’d known in town
for decades. All gone now.

A couple of enterprises attempted
a comeback there, but none went far.
It’s an old building. It must need
a complete redo.

I walked by yesterday on my way
to buy groceries and stopped
to peer in a spot of window to
take in the cavernous emptiness,
the counter, the booths vanished
to that place where ice cream parlors
of yore must go,

where I hope to land when I leave
my body behind, walking in to take
a seat on a swivel-y stool at the counter,
Jim himself turning from his post
at the sandwich station, nodding
and asking, as if he didn’t know,
“Jik Jak frost?”

And me giving the only possible
response: “Yes, please.”

The sweet, small, clumsy feet of April came into
the ragged meadow of my soul.
—e. e. cummings

•••

I set my rain-booted ones in April’s clumsy feet,
clomping through puddles like someone

much younger and closer to the ground,
not minding the dampening of my pants,

enjoying the squish and splash penetrating
my soul’s ragged meadow—

more parched than I had realized, far too
grown up for its own good,

reawakened by a playful soaking on
a rare rainy day in spring.

Not until later did I chuckle at what
passers-by might think of the coatless,

hatless, white-haired lady in her purple
rain boots careening through puddles

on an otherwise nondescript city sidewalk,
giggling with undisguised delight.