Above the ground
Not very far
The swing reaches
Two long arms
High above
To the first strong branch
But can climb no higher

Until the child comes
In the twilight
As the sun hangs
Reluctant
To leave entirely
Painting the clouds
Rose and gold

The child sits
But not to stay
Quietly in one place
No 
Hands grasp, holding 
The swing’s long arms
Feet stir, scraping
Earth as
The child swings

Up to the rose and gold west
Back through the brown earth
Feet kiss the ground in passing
Back up to the ever darkening east
The child swings

Back and forth

And the swing shouts
For the joy
Of its long arms
Swinging, singing
Free

I remember
Letting my toddlers choose their own clothes
Even when the choices were absurd
Because their growth
Was more important
Then their looks
Or even their comfort

So sometimes
They wore rain boots
On sunny days
Shorts on snowy days
And always
Were colorfully mismatched

I think of my grown children
One has not spoken to me in years
I have a granddaughter I have never seen
One is more comfortable texting than talking
One I see regularly but not often

I think of the years I spent
Becoming comfortable with that
Reality
Not the fairytale of through the woods
Over the hills
To grandma’s house
Smelling of camphor
(what the hell is camphor anyway?)
And homemade cookies

I think of my pleasure
That each of my children
Enjoy their lives
Never trouble free
But less troubled, perhaps,
Than their own childhoods
Now with their own
Families
Their own
Stability

I think of my prayers
Every time I am tempted
To be envious
Of the Facebook stories
Of other grandparents

I think of my prayers
Affirming my love 
For my own children
Praying my gratitude
For their happiness
Enjoying my accomplishment
In three wonderful adults

Then I half remember
Jesus’s parable or story or something
Ending in a question
Something like
If an earthly parent would do so for their child
How much more will your heavenly parent do for you?

And I wonder
Is God perhaps less interested in world peace
Than in my own peace?

To be thankful for:

ToDo lists that never get done
a God I’m not sure is there
the sun shining on dusty furniture
young dreams that never became
wet clothes I forgot to dry
life lived, sometimes well, sometimes not

a marriage betrayed
one time too many

a family broken
in ways that can’t be fixed

friends left behind
when I let life move me on

the winter of life
when the bright leaves have fallen

These are the challenges.
All the rest is easy.

Four loads of laundry
Bleach with the load
Of bedsheets
Spot removal
On tea towels, napkins, washcloths
One load after another
Into my washer
With multiple settings
None of which I change

Three loads hung out on
Two clotheslines
Clothespin holder shaped like
A pioneer dress
I feel like a pioneer woman
As I lift the poles
To raise the well hung clothes lines
I feel strong and noble
Like I am personally saving
The plant

But one load goes in the dryer
As I pick herbs
To use in the Italian herb bread recipe
I found on the internet
And am bravely adapting
To stuff the bread
With our own cherry tomatoes
Sautéed in olive oil
That splattered across the electric stove
As I hung out the second laundry load

In the kitchen I killed a fly that persisted
In buzz bombing me
Until every smallest shred of Buddhist
Inclination vaporized
I thought of my Christian images
Of God
As I cleaned the kitchen
While my handmade bread rose
In my oven 
With the setting for proofing bread

Some days
Even the simple life
Seems complicated
Much less my attempts
To commune with the divine

I wish I could wish
That I had not killed that fly
But I’m glad I did
And that’s the truth of it

The earth itself is his natural element.

Perhaps some god graced his parents
With foreknowledge
To name him Elwood
Perhaps some imp tickled his friends’ fancy
To nickname him Woody
Because this son of a sharecropper
Grew up
Past his horticultural degree
To become a tree farmer

More hobbit than Ent
He understands dirt
And weather
Seasons 
And lifespans

His strength weathers like his trees
His smile blooms like his flowers
His love endures like his perennials
His steadiness nourishes like his vegetables
His generosity flows like his stream
Into the carefully built pond of his friendships

He rests in the sunshine
On the porch he built
As he rests in my heart
On the love he planted there
And tends so carefully
With his gardener’s sure hands
As though I were
His earth itself