Güd wrtr

Bee daisy, too,
bee butterfly bush,
though the fragrant

purple spears have
yet to make their
appearance.

All kinds of bees—
fat fuzzy ones,
lithe black ones,

bee-like hoverflies with
their three pairs of commas
tattooed on their backs—

all pollinators seduced
by the come-hither
blossoms begging

for a fly-by. The here-
today-gone-in-a-few
flowers create urgency

in those winging in
for a swish and a sip.
Or maybe it’s the other

way ’round—perhaps
the busy bees prompt
the blooming, their buzzy

business sounding
the call to the tightly
budded—”We’re here!

Time to come out
and play!” And they do,
insects and flowers like

kids on a playground,
full of motion,
full of light.

The companion spirit who knows me best
drops in at the oddest times, often with
a can’t-miss-this message that might

as well be a burning bush. Driving
down H Street toward home, I see on
the rear end of a Toyota pickup:

TELUWHT

Reading it, grinning, I say aloud,
“What, Clifford?” as if he’s making a
suggestion from the passenger seat.

And when, at a stoplight, the driver sticks
his arm out the window, hand flexed
in a wave, I laugh as the line beams

into my brain: “Tell you what, Toots.”
And though I still don’t know what what
he meant, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

Message received, babe. Back at’cha.

becomes home, no matter how long we lived there,
long enough for some to set down slender tendrils of roots

or far longer so as to embed ourselves in the earth,
whether welcoming loam for growing things or hardpan

or desert or dirt below a city that never sleeps. Our soles
left impressions in that ground, whether we loved it or not,

that implanted itself in us, who claimed it as home—
these foothills goldening under broad-topped oaks

spreading their arms wide, a refuge for birds we seldom
hear in our grownup city lives. Why must we have to leave

before we realize how much that landscape shaped us?
When might we see how much we shaped it, too?

Riding the elevator down
to the basement, the university
music professor warns that it might
feel a little creepy down there.

Though I spent time with bands
and percussion instruments in this
building more than a half century ago,
I’ve not been in its bowels.

But an old xylophone lives there
in a huge room of extra instruments,
and the kind professor drags it
into the long tube of hallway

where, with the first strike of a mallet,
I know it is the perfect practice place.
Just as my mother and three other
quartet ladies loved to warm up

in a tiled bathroom, as I know to look
for a hard-surface floor on which
to park a marimba or xylophone,
I learned long ago to appreciate

the resonance of a pure space,
even with a bit of echo, to practice.
Even better to do so solo where
I am the only one hearing

the hits and misses on xylophone
keys that, on this vintage model,
have literally taken many beatings
but still sound OK. Not unlike

the old girl percussionist trying
to get her chops back after a long
absence, running the same passages
again and again, till she gets it,

if not perfectly, then better
with each try, regaining long-ago
confidence and a little more
competence with every note.

but it’s still a chair,
reads the sign taped
to one of the blue ones

at the poetry center,
the message a poem itself,
though maybe more a koan,

which I doubt someone
meant it to be, though
you never know—

poetry found everywhere,
after all, especially
during April

(Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there),
a month dedicated

to the art form,
two lines of observation
taped to a most ordinary

blue chair atop four
sturdy, or not-so-sturdy,
legs in chrome—

and oh, look what
just appeared—
another poem.

•••

With thanks to Patrick Grizzell and the board members
of the Sacramento Poetry Center for their devotion
to the art form and for hosting so many marvelous events
during National Poetry Month. SPC supports all kinds
of writers around the greater Sacramento region.
Donations are always welcome by scrolling to the bottom
of the events page and clicking on the “donations” button.

•••

The lines “Oh, to be in England / Now that April’s there”
are by the English poet Robert Browning, the opening to
“Home-Thoughts From Abroad,” written in 1845 while
he was in Italy, shortly before his marriage to Elizabeth
Barrett, herself a fine poet (and nowadays better known
than her husband). It is a gem of a poem about spring,
which you can read here.

Words aren’t coming—no big deal
if you write or not, doesn’t matter
on this blustery, rainy day.

And then something nudges you
to stuff your stubborn feet into purple
rubber boots, don the rain jacket

and hat, consider, then discard,
the idea of umbrella as you walk outside,
squint into the gray overhead,

take a step, then another and another,
solvitur ambulando, Saint Augustine
is said to have said—

it is solved by walking—

and off you go, steppin’ off the sads,
your blue mood dripping away with every
raindrop, every footfall literally moving

you forward, because, as Sir Issac said,
a body in motion continues in motion,
so keep’a’ goin’ there, sweetheart.

Look—without even trying—words
begin to drop into the brain pan
like pennies in the pocket.

Feel them jingle with every step.
They matter. You matter.
Be grateful for so many riches.

We sometimes think that stunning
end-of-day skies happen only
at the edges of the Earth,

ideally standing on a spit of land
or sand by the ocean, where
some unseen hands watercolor

the heavens. But then we step
outside wherever we happen to be,
take in a swatch of sky, and there,

we breathe in the last light,
admire the swash of orangey
pink that turns a parking lot

into a moment of wonder,
this sky that will never again—
like us—look like this.

We must admit there will be music despite everything.
—poet Jack Gilbert from “A Brief for the Defense”

In my case, the sharp sounds of mallets hitting metal,
practicing the bells solo to “Stars and Stripes Forever,”

which I haven’t performed in forever, but will
in early May, along with other American classics

as this country celebrates its 250th year. Which,
despite everything—the needless damage inflicted

on institutions of the people, by the people
and for the people—not to mention on the people

themselves, here and abroad—it is, for better
or worse, my country. A half century ago,

as a bicentennial high school graduate,
I played patriotic music all year with bands

and orchestras till I was ready to throttle
John Phillip Sousa. All these decades later,

standing at the back of a band, mallets
at the ready for bells and xylophone—

also woman-ing triangle and crash cymbals
I am again music, despite everything,

contributing in my percussive way
to the whole, determined to get Mr. Sousa’s

famous march melody tack sharp perfect
for Americans and all who deserve to be,

god bless us every one.

Now that I’m officially one of the young-old,
as one of my old-old friends has dubbed me,

I have been made aware that I have a fondness
for certain citizens of gardens that are,

apparently to many, old lady plants. They seem
to live in the categories of the fragrant,

like lilacs and gardenias and roses, or poofy
like hydrangeas and rhododendrons, or

pretty like azaleas. Though I don’t math, I can’t
help but admire the geometrical perfection

of the highly ordered camellias with their
spiraling, overlapping petals in groups of

5s, 8s, 13s—a living example of the Fibonacci
sequence in which each element is the sum

of the two elements that precede it.
And really, isn’t that true of old lady plants?

They are the result of eons of evolution, like
all of us old ladies, if we’re fortunate to become

them. Like the ever-reliable geraniums, we suit up
and show up to grace our environments with color.

And how can we not get swoony over the scents
of lilacs and gardenias, which may remind us

of our grandmothers, likely the first old ladies
we knew? As some of us are now, cradling

our own grandchildren in our capable arms,
perhaps walking them into our gardens,

leaning in to sniff the new arrivals, introducing
the babies to the wonders of growing things

just like them.

(for Sue Reynolds, my mentor in mint)

Now the new babies are sleeping,
tucked into their compost-lined
cribs in the front yard, though

with time they will creep, as babies
do, before they leap into energetic
growth. But for now, the geum

and poppies, the lavender and tiny
daisies rest, gather strength, grow
quietly. Still, I’m gobsmacked

by the spearmint sprigs leaping
into their third year, the ones
I smuggled home from my

Canadian friend’s garden two
summers ago. I hear that mint
muscles its way into spaces

it shouldn’t, shoving aside the less
aggressive. But I tried for years
to grow any kind of mint, only to

have it squashed or eaten by cats
who didn’t care that it wasn’t catnip.
Not until I bootlegged this northern

transplant in a cross-cultural exchange—
watching it sleep and leap through two
growing seasons like a champ—have

I seen so many spearmint stems lining
my driveway, its perky green leaves
ripe for snipping. Delighted, I dig out

the little red teapot, a sister to
the one my Canadian friend has
on her kitchen counter, and pluck

the leaves the way she taught me,
insert them into the pot’s mini
colander, and douse the mint

with not-quite-boiling water,
smiling as I inhale the steam.
I just might drink this every day

if the mint can keep up with me
before it, too, recedes for winter,
both of us leaping with joy

through this growing season,
luxuriating in these lengthening days,
reaching for the light.