Emma

It was magic. Unquestionably.

The timing that is.

The miraculous decision to shave her head at that precise moment. Lobbying her parents with a Powerpoint presentation on the benefits of a hairless head.

A teenaged Bruce Wayne.

A wide-eyed Peter Parker.

Imagine her list: So much cooler. No more shampoo. Money saved. Free-flowing drains.

But what about these?
They’ll listen to the girl without hair.
A modern day Samson in reverse.
And, most urgent:
Please release the magic.

How miraculous that the sheering occurred at the moment it was needed. Mere moments before tragedy struck.

The tragic and magic coexisted on camera for 11 minutes. “I call BS” flowed through tears from the fierce bald-headed girl with an unwavering gaze and ferocious courage.

And the nation listened.

It was magic that the timing was perfect for a hero’s birth.

Then she lead with a devastating “would never” refrain before standing strong, blinking through the pain.

And the excruciating silence.

Silence

Silence

Silence

The courage to be silent.
A superpower.
Pure magic.

A hero was needed and she was born with an electric razor and a kind resilient heart. From mind-numbing tragedy she emerged with a spellbinding look. An unwavering heart.

And razor focus.

She’s hope for our future.

True magic.

Wake up

They’re so late this year.
The cherry blossoms are due but
Barely a bloom and the peak is
Pushed back a month.

The tall handsome ranger just told
Me it’s the first time since 1937
They didn’t follow “the model”
“Of course they didn’t” I say out loud.

Chilled and confused by
The prevailing uncertain sadness
Who knows anymore what “the model” is?
It’s easier now to stay dormant.
Hiding from stresses is easier for all of us
Who are living through this tumult.

Exhaustion combined with endless worry.
Who can blame those burrowing?
There is comfort in the mindless.
“I had to turn it off” they say of the explosion of daily news.

But these kids have sent a rallying cry.
“Enough” they’ve said while still suffering.
Hamilton sings “The Unimaginable”
The saddest lament
The senseless loss of a child

Our children.

Now these kids are embraced by what’s good in our nation.
Millions have listened to their call

To wake up
To listen
To March

Wake up cherry blossoms.
You can’t sit this out.
Your beauty is a buoy in dark water.
Like these unstoppable outspoken kids.
These beautiful kids who will save us.

Wonder

6:20 Saturday morning.
Warm bed in the late fall chill.
Pierre meows to come in.
Ignoring him is futile.
I rise, groggy, resolved to return.
Then, a glimmer of splendor.
Our entry glows orange.
Window peering.
A ripe peach burst sky.
A glorious greeting.
Golden sun streaks shift.
A momentary quandary.
(My camera bag is in the car)
Shocking cold bare foot dash.
Plaid flannel rustles.
Damp grass amplifies the chill.
But, the bracing beauty.
A greedy gulp of magic.
Thank you Pierre.

Resurrection

When I moved the tin trough with the two flowerpots of forest green leaves from under the tree by the driveway to the table on the deck I hoped a resurrection of fuchsia flowers would cascade over the edges of the container within just a few days. In the beginning the small pink flowers had been thick and resolute under the tree in the pan next to the big pot of towering mixed greens and perky white impatience. But the rosy blooms didn’t stand a chance against the insatiable deer. The ravenous bands made short order of the blossoms, leaving behind a sea of unadorned spiny spinach colored leaves. My rescue came late and the bitten through stubs left thick brown islands in a sage sea. Weeks have passed since the emancipation with no sign of burgeoning buds. I worried the deer damage was immutable and the summer would wind down without a renaissance.

But this morning…a perfect tight bud. I’ve named it “my little pink hope” atop a sea of green rubble.

Spring Bombs

A bud’s concise anticipatory life stops time
Bracing nature in fresh shades
Briefly hushing agitated hands
Pea, grass, apple, chartreuse
Or simply green
Capturing all the subtle variances
The bursting season’s allure
Unnoticed by terrified passersby
Hauling rigid earlobe hanging shoulders
Reflexively, uncontrollably elevated
Slowing, breathing, stretching, meditating
In pursuit of a clear mind
All attempts at calm fizzle
As enormous bombs explode
Without a plan
Is there a plan?
Clearly no considered plan
Or thoughtful musing
Where rational care is needed
We observe as helpless hostages
Of a locked-in nuclear staring contest
Teetering on hair-trigger volatility
Our country’s fate trapped in erratic hands
Stranded by hopeless fear
And knotted stomach loathing
Eerie prospects cloud our brains
Smothering springtime pleasure

Hallowed Grounds

I spoke to Jefferson that night
Or to his statue to be precise
On my visit decades later
On the side of the lawn
Hidden by dark bushes
On the deep winter night
On those grounds I had loved
During those lonely years
Where the beauty of the place
Was my favorite part

“What do you think of him?
Avoiding his name
On the virtuous ground

Sadly the answer
From his frozen gaze
Or my own addled head
He’s not an intellect
Or a patriot
Not an inventor
Or builder of anything real
Not a writer
Or a man of conviction
Not a crusader for truth
Or a champion of honor
(There are no hallowed grounds in his future)

As I take in the place
Built for learning and legacy
I pray for our beautiful country
Cringing in his path

Before

It was pink this morning
The sky
Before the sun came up
I walked the windows
Bursting clouds in grapefruit pink

It was perfect this morning
The coffee
Before my dream fog left
I inhaled the aroma
Generous beans in savory nectar

Before today’s news
Before the “Oh My God”
I bathed in a sunrise show
I swam in coffee ambrosia
Amidst the daily trepidation
I’m still here