Güd wrtr

After I gave up that car and
retired the license plates,

I hammered one into the graying
redwood that is the back fence.

The nearby rose bush pruned
for winter means that I can see

the plate without surrounding
foliage for a while, which means

I think of the one who gave me
the plates and came up with

the goofy abbreviation. She who
loved me to the moon and back,

as she did all her beloveds, she
who called herself my best friend

before I knew she was. And now,
BFF, I see you in this show-offy

red rose, all look-at-me, look-at-me,
which was not like you in life.

But now, I figure, you, dear companion
spirit, might think that you have

to get my attention, make sure that
my easily distracted self catches on.

If that’s not you, I don’t want to know.
But if it is, nice job, BFF, I’m leaning in

for a hearty sniff. Those crimson petals
look so good on you.

•••

For Georgann, wherever you are in the mystery.

After a mid-afternoon linner
at a spot down the river road that
feels as if we’re miles away from
our city,

we cross the Freeport Bridge
to another county and head
south for some miles, the river
to the port side

on a spring Saturday that feels
out of time. It could be any time,
any year, the timelessness of
the river

meandering, as it so reliably does,
through the Delta, bound for the sea.
We have no place to be, no particular
place to go

when I pull off and stop so we can
stand in late afternoon sunshine
and watch a single boat motor north,
listen to birds,

spy on fuzzy black bees helicoptering
around long stands of purple vetch,
dipping in for sips of pollen. How
blessedly lazy.

How pleasant. How ordinary this
purposeful pause as we sit on a bench
with each other and our memories,
watching the river run.

“Oh, God, no”—the half-prayer
burst out of me when I saw the
severely pruned wisteria over

the driveway trellis. I’d asked
Miguel, the efficient garden god,
to take the tangled limbs in hand,

and boy, did he. It was January,
and it occurred to me then that
the now-stubby sticks could not

possibly flower before leafing
in March. It’s an old plant anyway,
putting out fewer blossoms every

year, but I can’t bear to think about
replacing it. Besides, it produces
offspring that pop up on both

sides of the driveway that has me
pulling them out as they sprout.
But I’ve let a couple take root,

get tall, and provided a tower for
one to climb and a fence for another.
I did not hear God or her earthly

representatives say, “Oh, ye of little faith,”
but somehow, those sweet purple clusters
emerged in March, right on time,

as wee clumps of green sprouted
around them. The wisteria never lasts
long—maybe a week, ten days,

if I’m lucky. But when it makes its annual
appearance, I make sure that I stand
in the driveway daily to admire all that

lavender loveliness, tell those short-lived
beauties how gorgeous they are,
reminding myself of the possibility,

even the likelihood, of resurrection,
even in our short-sightedness,
our bumbling humanness.

What I remember
is that they were heavy,
the pair of crash cymbals,

and picking up the two
big discs tonight at band
practice reminded me

that parts of me used
to be in much better
shape, younger parts I

never had to think about,
like hands and wrists.
After one rehearsal

it’s clear that I need
a workout plan so that,
by the last concert

of the semester, my
forearms are gonna look
like Wonder Woman’s,

and my hands will
handle those heavy
metal copper crashers

with grace and ease,
smoothly bringing
them together

at just the right
angle to generate
just the right sound

(please, dear
percussion gods)
at just the right time.

Her helmet is gold, his is black,
and when she leans her body left

to speak into his ear at stoplights,
they look like side-by-side bowling balls.

That was, for a moment, me, sans braid,
risking my neck—and far more than that—

along with the ire of my father, had he known,
behind a young man revving his brother’s

borrowed bike. Four decades later, waiting
at a stoplight behind these two helmeted

lovers, I smile as they wait for the signal
that will propel them down this road,

bound for whatever kind of adventure awaits.

I always think of you as the blue gal,
drawn toward turquoises and teals,

even a soft baby blue. And today under
a spring-blue sky, I made my way out

to what was your house to drop off gifts
for your descendants who have made it theirs,

only to step out from what was your car
and look up into the pinkiest pink

of your dogwood tree, under which
the babiest pink of azaleas bloomed.

In your final couple of springs, when so
much of you was vanishing, I would come

in the house, saying, “Ma, the dogwood
is blooming.” And you’d brighten

then slowly come down the garage steps
and make your way to the front yard,

looking up into the mass of blooms.
Unable to see the petals, you’d nod

at the pinks, inhale the blue above,
as I did today, not needing to see it,

but stand under it, luxuriating in
the hues of the season,

absorbing all the love.

Because I didn’t want to miss the last
of the early wildflowers,
and because it was such a perfect, blue-sky day,
and because I knew the lake surface would run
to cobalt under that sky,
and, suspecting that the water would be
quite high, which it was,

I made my way to the lake I still think of
as mine, a folder of stories tucked under my arm,
imagining that I would sit in the spring breeze
under the shade of a white willow tree
near the waterline, get some work done.

But there were two boys at the lip
of sand and shore attempting to cast a line,
and a woman with three dogs heading
for a point to the north that I love.

And on the lake, a motorboat droning
a familiar hum zoomed toward the dam
as two riders on horseback meandered
across the sand, a dog leading the way,
as if summoned for a photo.

And when I finally found a place to sit
under that willow, I heard but did not see
a fish jump in the shallows,

and one of the boys, who had put down
his pole, walked the shoreline with
a confident stride much older than his years,
ankle-deep in my lake that is now his, too,
off to go see what he could see.

I loved the pale pink leotard that hugged my six-year-old self,
and even more, the stiff pink tutu worn on special occasions,

though my little body tottered not only when I rose to my toes
but standing flat-footed, or walking, or running. I could and did

trip over obstacles, real and imagined, which was one reason
my mother took me to the ballet studio. There I began to learn

that I could be not particularly good at something to love it.
I’ve been practicing grace ever since. Not just in my unsteady

self that had, as a wise older friend told a 20-something me,
“not yet decided to stay” in my body. I resolved to stay, and have.

But grace, I’ve learned, is not only about the “-ful” bit, about
refinement of movement or courteous goodwill, or offering thanks,

but also about blessings constantly bestowed upon us for free,
for no good reason, because of the generosity of the spirit

of the universe. So that every time I totter and sometimes fall,
when I am caught and held safe, the words “thank you” cross

my mind and lips, which the little pink tutu’d ballerina likely
did not say often enough to her mother and father, to the little

sister who, too young for ballet class, stood in the doorway
learning all the steps her big sister struggled with. And so I say

again, to all of them, those beloveds here and gone, to the great
spirit that made us all, thank you. Thank you so very much.

•••

Thanks to Micah Darden for this wonderful line that inspired the title of this poem.
He was one of ten people who spoke on March 22, 2026, at the Unitarian Universalist
Society of Sacramento service, reflecting on Mary Oliver’s phrase “Your wild and
precious life,” from her poem, “The Summer Day.”

Today amplifies creativity and ambition, offering new paths
and expressive channels.
—Daily Om horoscope, March 21, 2026

•••

How do they know, those horoscope writers?

It says that Leo is my most compatible sign,
that it complements my dynamic energy.
So as a Leo, does that mean I’m most
compatible with me?

Still, the Daily Om horoscope nails it today:

You may find yourself leading a meeting at work,
inspiring your coworkers, or even speaking
for a discussion group in your personal life.

Though I am happy that I no longer have
work in the traditional sense, much less
superiors or coworkers, I like this bit:

By embracing your own natural talent for empowering others
and allowing your true personality to shine today,
you could end up making a positive impression
on superiors, coworkers, or even clients.

And I get a horoscopical pat on the back for rising early (for me):
Expect to feel a surge of initiative combined with
a steady resolve to see things through.

I should, my horoscope advises:
Focus on fostering connections that enhance personal growth.
Explore fresh opportunities and let your personality shine today.
Harness the energy for growth.

This makes me blush:
Your charm and charisma could be strong today,
and this could attract many opportunities to shine.

So I’ll take it, me with my steady resolve
doing what I know I’m meant to do—

exploring opportunities,
growing energetically,
shining, always shining—

over here in my little corner of the cosmos.

Make a list:

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

Keep going.

Now close your eyes and absorb all the love of the universe,
even the bits that you don’t think are for you.

They’re for you.

And everything you’ve ever wanted? That’s there for you, too.
Perhaps not in the form you imagined. Expand that vision.
Allow for substitutions, amendments, additions,
maybe for the wonky and weird.

Maybe wrap some white, healing light around it,
or a rainbow or two—any kind of shimmer
that illuminates your soul.

Now release it all; watch it drift away like dandelion fluff.

Everything you’ve ever wanted?

There you go.