Aloe in Bloom, and Everything Else
















Today I feel like I don't have an original bone in my body, and am having a hard time writing an actual poem. But I went for a run earlier and as I passed this patch of brilliant red aloe flowers, I was overcome with gratefulness for some of the things I just don't think about very often. My prayer of thanks isn't very creative, but it's from the heart.


Thank you for aloe in bloom.
Thank you for eyesight that needs only the slightest correction.
Thank you for legs that can walk and run,
and arms that can swim, paddle,
carry groceries and hug my sons.
Thank you for the year ending
and the one about to begin.

Remembering Tim

When I remember you, Tim,

it's through the filter of your brother's stories--

my favorite memories of you

have become the stories he told me.

You policing the sugar he put on his cereal

while he taunted you, tipping just a bit more off the spoon;

your careful, complete assembly of model airplanes

while his, half-finished, were set on fire and thrown off the dock.

The rivalry and love that can probably only be understood

by two brothers born eighteen months apart.


I Do

for David

Do you remember
the night we stayed up late
and painted the kitchen
drinking peppermint martinis
(which
if I remember correctly
were pretty much just vodka
and a candy cane)
and singing Christmas carols along with Ella Fitzgerald
and the Choir of King's College
while our baby boys slept upstairs?
I do.
I love you.

After the Storm

There's a break in the rain

so we start mopping up.

Looking at swollen wood and damp drywall

and peeling paint.

Every towel in the house is soaking wet

or being washed and dried

so it can be soaking wet again.

But with every heavy load

of laundry I carry upstairs

my heart feels lighter.

It's a load that I can carry.

My back is strong.

There's blue sky on the horizon,

and it's almost Christmas.