Wind, Blue Sky
I am practicing being
in the moment,
to think wind, blue sky,
grandson singing
in his stroller—feygele,
for little bird,
as my mother would
say. I am trying
to feel the ropy muscles
of my legs tighten
and release, rhythmic
as a metronome,
with every step, to feel
on my skin, tangible
as some human touch,
the soft morning air.
I am trying to attend
to the distant crow,
if he is a crow. I am
practicing at practicing—
but here comes memory,
insistent as the bird’s
cry, sparked this time
by an old photo
my son’s hung beside
the guestroom bed
I rise from each day—
my smiling dead mother
caught in the moment
he’s made her laugh,
their heads close
together as they tread
the shimmering water
of a Lauderdale pool,
her face wet and crinkled
with joy. He has taped
below the frame’s border
a strip torn from her calendar,
sad prophecy in her lefty scrawl,
“Sunday, 4PM, Wedding!!!”
A date she’d never see.
Bring your attention
gently back. So here’s
my grandson, watching
a sunstruck white car.
See the white car?
See the nice man walking
his doggie? See the big tree?
And here are three young girls,
long braids shining,
passing on their bikes.
One lifts her fishing rod
in greeting and is gone.
