Güd wrtr

To be reminded who we’re meant
to be, stand here still. Look up.

—Kim Stafford, from “Bright Dark Sky”

•••

We are meant to be vast, like the sky,
why birds draw our eyes upward,

why trees’ long limbs and great height
do, too, why the susurrus of wind

though leaves reminds us that what
can’t be seen is powerful beyond

the heart’s measure. We are large,
as the poet said, contradictory, yes;

we contain multitudes. And when
we are still, standing in our infinite

selves, looking up, we see that
we, too, are sky, the blue-black sky,

day and night, cloudy and bright,
astronomical, limitless, extraordinary.

(In memory of Georgann Turner
March 1, 1951–August 17, 2021)

Decades ago, when I first heard you
say this, it had not yet morphed into
cliché, inscribed on rocks and plaques
and pendants, something grownups
say to children or lovers to each other:

“Love you to the moon and back.”

An impossibly far-away number,
about 477,000 miles, so distant as
to be mythical, this sentiment that
heightens and dramatizes devotion.

But several years after you vanished
into—well, the wherever—on a dusky
purple evening as I drove through
a pioneer cemetery in the high desert,
I saw the stenciled words that I heard
you so often say to your beloveds.

I had to stop the car, leaping out
to take a photo, certain in that selfish
way we the living embrace that this
was a message from you. Silly,
of course. Certainly not original.

NASA officials spoke of going
“to the moon and back” when three
men did in 1969, two of them
imprinting their Earthly soles
in fine lunar soil.

But seeing it there in bold blue
with other dearly departed
zinged you back into me with
such tympanic force, I felt my
heart tremble. In a good way.

I love when you swoop in,
as companion spirits do. I think
it’s how you play with us—
though yes, it could be wishful
thinking.

But since there you were, letting this
be a sign unto me, how could I do
anything but pixelize the moment
as my stuttering heart ba-bumped
its way back into action?

How could I do anything but thank
you for all that love rocketing back
at me from the far side of forever?

Which sounds related to crows,
as in “corvid,” which they are in a way,
carved stone supports projecting

from walls to support weight, often
colossal weight of great structures—like
cathedrals’ massive arches and beams.

A corb in old French was a raven, and
corbels resembled the hooked beaks
of the massive black birds and their

smaller crow cousins. Which leads me
to think of all the silent, sturdy supports
I take for granted, like corbels

underpinning medieval buildings
for nearly a thousand years. Not unlike
crows that surely land on some

of those ancient corbels, or their American
relatives I see every day on my street,
pecking hot asphalt for anything edible.

We are held by the unseen—like my
Neighbor who each morning quietly
sprinkles birdseed on the corner

for hungry avian friends. Like you
and you and you, my great footholds
in the world, cornerstones that

serve as the bedrock of my existence,
my corbels, without whom I could not
touch down nearly as solidly,

always offering a safe place to land.

Never doubt that they remain with us,
the elders keeping watch,

time-traveling sentinels standing
guard, offering silent protection,

their heartstones testament to
their mission: keeping us safe.

That they occasionally make
appearances, shimmering into

physical form pleases us
when we behold them,

these temporal voyagers
who then vanish into mystery,

as we will do one day,
with luck, joining them

in their assignment of
cosmic caretaking.

It is time to remember the unfolding,
To remember the river comes to me.
—Meg Kaczyk, from “Still, Life”

•••

I am one of the folded—
like an accordion,
both instrument and file,

the bright yellow origami box
folded by a retired engineering professor
that sat for years on my desk,

the rainbow umbrella waiting
in the hall closet for rain,

my father’s pocketknife that
he used to dig grit from under
his nails,

and my mother’s smaller gold one
that lived on the table beside
her chair in the family room,

ready to open what needed opening.
Like butterflies folding their wings
vertically as they rest,

or the forelegs of a praying mantis
waiting, snapping them out in
50 milliseconds to snatch prey
from the air.

Now to unfold from the crouch,
to slowly uncurl the backbone
like a wave lifting from the base
of the ocean,

taking an upright stance, shake out
the geological folds of tectonic
compression

and remember what wants
remembering, perhaps within
hearing of the river,

whispering, Come in;
the water’s fine.

(in memory of Margery Thompson)

And now, on the brink of the first birthday
you are not with us,

rather than think about that, or your final
birthday barely two weeks before

you lifted off, surely, into the heaven
you imagined,

I stumble into your cheesecake recipe—
“more pie than cake,” you said—

then hunt down the photos of Rebecca
and me learning from you, the master,

the secrets of your late son’s favorite
cheesecake (honestly, all of our favorite),

four summers before you died—a favor
to me who wanted to make cheesecake

for my mom’s 90th birthday. And I did,
serving yours, along with three other

recipes I tried, to partygoers on a 110-
degree afternoon, walking pieces out

to people and urging them to eat fast
so the delicacy wouldn’t puddle on

their plates. Yours, of course, was
my mother’s favorite, creamy atop

its graham cracker crumb crust.
It was everyone’s favorite—

the clear pie plate littered only
with crumbs by the party’s end,

which was how you left us
after so many wonderful parties.

And no matter how much we
celebrate you in your absence,

no matter how much we trust that
your gentle spirit hovers around us all,

it’ll never taste the same.

(for Maxi, the moggy* at my house)

Dude, forgive me.
I missed your day
four days ago.

It’s not as if
every day isn’t
Cat Day

around here,
but when all cats
across the globe

are celebrated, and
your clueless person
missed it,

well, yipe. To you,
my mama’s moggy
who has made me

your human,
I thank your huge
feline self for

all the love,
all the purrs,
so much you.

Feather on a stick
time? OK, dude,
let’s play!

•••

*A moggy is a British slang term for a mixed-breed,
non-pedigreed house cat.

•••

Photo snagged from a Sacramento History Museum video
of printer Channey making this letterpress print on the museum’s
1852 Washington hand press. I love the daily videos like this one,
which can be seen on Facebook, of the History Museum’s printers
using the classic press to commemorate historic events.

(for Joan Stockbridge)

If one is waving, perhaps bobbing
its orange head in your direction,

whether you’re a native or exotic,
take it as a friendly greeting,

a botanical hello, especially on
the hottest days. They’re meant to thrive

when the sun blares, when their flowers
grow fullest, these resilient cups of gold joy.

They prompt us to smile in return,
remember that we are built to flourish

in arid conditions—like now—despite
obstacles, stronger than we think,

that we can withstand and sway,
that we will rise again.

Twenty little toesies—
10 crimson and 10 rosy pink
on lime green flops—

nicely pedi’d, calves massaged
by hands that remolded ours
into happy feet

always a fine way to celebrate
a belated birthday because
dates don’t matter to toesies

all spiffed up and ready to
literally step out on the town—
or at least to lunch—

yours’n’mine,
friend to friend.

•••

(with thanks to friend Laura Martin for the pedi and lunch)

(Ashland, Oregon)

Anxious to find a parking space
too close to the time of our final play,

I crept slowly up the hill by the park,
invoking the trusty parking fairy,

who must’ve been off preparing for
her night’s work onstage—

because it was a midsummer night,
and there was dreaming to be done.

No spot made itself available to
two playgoers. But twice I stopped

saying, “Oh, deer!” to briefly watch
at close range two troupes of females

nibbling grass, oblivious to cars and
people, secure in their momentary safety,

sensing that all would end well, that
those foolish mortals in their rolling

contraptions would do the foragers no
harm. And so, touched by that bit of magic,

I drove on.