Güd wrtr

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 good 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.

(Folsom Boulevard, Sacramento, California)

Walk into the foyer of the store,
and you’re hit in the floral sense
with all manner of bouquets

at reasonable prices, perfect
for spontaneous gift-giving
or, in the case of small bunches

of about-to-bloom daffodils,
for a vase at home to watch
them burst into sunshine.

But outside on the corner
of the lot several exuberant
bush roses are parked,

at the moment a riot
of soft pink, compelling me
to stop, take their photo

in the wild as, inside,
I appreciate their brethren
rounded up for those

who will take them in,
appreciate them in their
already-dying state.

Not unlike some of the
pink roses outside.
Not unlike those of us

coming in to shop for what
temporarily sustains us in
these all-too-transient bodies.

And now some of the same monks
who trekked 2,300 miles across
a good chunk of the United States

are walking through Sri Lanka
with their simple message of peace,
offering blessings to hundreds

who line roadways:
May you be happy.
May you be peaceful.

May you be well.
May you be free from suffering
and the causes of suffering.

They set out on foot each morning
despite—or perhaps because of—
the cruelties of the world,

remind us that gentleness thrives, too,
that peace and kindness resides within
so many who have strewn huge

banana leaves on the ground, to cool
hot pavement with water and petals,
to offer flowers, provide food,

a place to sleep, kind hands
to tend what’s hurting, who act
as escorts and welcome with

such open hearts strangers
in their midst who ask for nothing,
like the gentle monks who

leave love in their wake, each
step taken in the name of peace,
so that those who bow

and those who walk are one,
not others at all,
who are us.

•••

You can follow the Walk for Peace Buddhist monks on their
April 2026 journey through Sri Lanka here.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.
—William Shakespeare, from “Cymbeline”

•••

It’s possible that Shakespeare came into the world
and left it on the same day 52 years later, though

no one knows for sure. Both are commemorated
on April 23, so on this day, some 410 years

after his death, pleased to see the first blooms
of cosmos standing tall in my front yard,

from the sidewalk I offer a small bouquet
of Will’s words to the newly blossomed—

“Now, my fair’st friend,
I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours”—

grateful for those that come now, for those that
will soon be gone, and for all the rest to come.

•••

The Shakespeare lines are from “The Winter’s Tale.”

The little patch of earth I steward
today opened its mouth to gratefully
receive what might well be the last
precipitation of the season,

living, as I do, in the land of little rain,
which makes me thankful, too,
for what humans do to collect it
and protect it,

makes me think of the finally
free-flowing Klamath River
far north of my home turf,
wrangled into submission

by the water-hungry occupiers
more than a century ago,
dammed in more ways than one,
at last set free, now recovering

as its indigenous defenders
have wanted for a hundred years,
salmon swimming ever farther
upstream to spawn,

the baby salmon now starting
their journey to the ocean in
water that those who know
it best once called putrid.

Now, they’ll tell you,
the river, at long last,
smells sweet.

•••

I’m grateful to have heard this story featuring Amy Bowers Cordalis
of the Yurok Tribe and the author of “The Water Remembers”
describing the recovery of the Klamath River since the last
of its four dams was removed in October 2024.