I am not sure
if swallows have returned to Capistrano
but dolphins have returned to Venice

We walk our back garden
alone together

The weeping cherry
drops white tearlets
onto purple Solomon’s seal
surging up from winter rest

Bolder peonies
in deep red
are already knee high

Daffodils and Lenten roses
nod their greetings
while shy vinca tries to hide
their blue in green skirts

Radishes arise
as we bury potatoes

Bloodroot’s pure white flowers
beneath budding trees
belie its name

Our constructed world slows
as God’s world grows

And dolphins swim past
quiet Venetian streets

My dog died
just before February leaped,
leaped into a pandemic.

I went to France
just before March crept,
crept into a crisis.

I returned home
just before time slowed,
slowed for everyone.

I sit here now
going nowhere fast,
keeping all distant,

and mourn for a world
that seemed to stop
when my dog died.

Noble Antigone
Intent upon God’s right
A king’s decree be damned
Murmured ritual
Sprinkled soil

And hanged herself

killing inconstant Harmon
innocuous Eurydice

Leaving only
Grieving
Chastened
Creon

Only?

What of Ismene?
Where wanders the practical sister?
How mourns the sole survivor?
What keeps her awake in darkest night?
Twisting her bed sheets
Wandering echoing halls
Grief? Guilt? Anger? Frustration?
Loneliness?

Bold Antigone
Flames bright
For a brief moment
And lives forever

Sad Ismene
With tempered loyalty
Lingers long
And dies unmourned

From deep roots the waning winter world thrusts bare gray trees high into the sky.
Small upstarts of tufted green dare to challenge the browned ground.
Rich brown mulch, with easily imagined deep musk smells, shroud dead gardens.
Dark dense evergreens ever stalwart begin to laugh out lighter edges.
Beneath them, bold green spikes cluster close seeking reassurance that flowers will soon bloom.
Wooden fences sport new boards, proud repairs mending old injuries.
A quiet sky lingers between bright and dull, awaiting fresh energy.
The country road curves and curves again uneager to arrive anywhere.
An orange clad runner appears, strange hurrying through a waiting world.
Not Quite Spring

My attention veers
From wonder
To defense

Most of my wonder is not weighty

I wonder
What to fix for dinner
Which sweater to take on my next trip
Who should I ask to lead the committee
Where did I put my favorite earrings
When will I find time to do my taxes
Why is that one dusky rose still beautiful, erect and whole, in the narrow vase, a year later
How did the Catholic Church become so invested in denying the full imago Dei of women

Then my fingers, in a moment of escapism
Tap the Facebook icon
I have notifications
I read several argumentative comments
On a recent post I wrote

Only with conscious effort
A ridiculously necessary exertion of willpower
Do I delete my half-written defense
Close Facebook
And write this

I feel proud and grateful
And I wonder
When did the opinions
Of such lightly known friends become important

I say,
“I’m going to start fixing dinner now.”
Then later…
“Dinner in 10 minutes.”
Then 10 minutes later…
“Dinner time.”

He says,
“Dinner in 20 minutes.”
25 minutes later
when I go to the dining room
he sits at the table
waiting patiently.
I am frustrated.
He is not.
Just simply waiting.

Another time,
when he goes to bed
I am delayed

(answering a text from a girl I am tutoring. Panicking about a project, she hopes I can meet her in the morning before school.)

When I come to bed
I try to interest him
but he is slow to respond.
I ask softly
(forgetting his near deafness)
but get no answer.
Thinking him uninterested
I roll over with a sigh
to read.
He, though interested,
says nothing
thinking I have decided
I am too tired.

But last week he brought me
Daffodils
not yet quite blooming
so they opened their yellow hearts to me
over the week in the vase on the mantle.

Yesterday he brought me
Lenten roses
Hellebores, he taught me,
bowing their dusky petals over the mantel.

One afternoon he went
as usual to take his nap
but came out again
after just a few minutes
pulled me up from the sofa
saying,
“No miscommunication.
I want you.”

I went with him
because of how we respond
to each other’s caresses.

But more…

Because of daffodils
and Lenten roses
Because of dinners fixed
and gardens tended
Because of evenings
sitting on the sofa
when he stretches his hand
across the small distance
to squeeze mine
Because of unexpected love notes
left in my favorite places
when he is gone

Because of his love
eloquently told
every day

Love flows
Like a stream
Sometimes dammed
Sometimes diverted
Never stopped

Love knows
How to wait
Sometimes mild
Sometimes wild
Never gone.

Loves grows
Like a plant
Sometimes creeping
Sometimes leaping
Never withering.

Love blows
Through our souls
Like divine breath
Defying even death
Never still.

Love shows
Up every day
Not just
Valentine’s Day.

Love stays.

Age can scumble our dreams
Tumbling us into soft
Yielding complacency
So we stumble over
Discarded ambitions
Succumb to half truths
Live, loving less, in dim light
Until we die.

But also

Age can chiaroscuro our memories
Limning us into newer selves
Yielding nothing
Though we humble ambitions
Search for better truths
Die, loving more, in divine light
Until we live.

In golden garments,
the priest raises high
the round white bread
“This is my body”
Offered to the gathered old
Muttering, trembling
Thin hair none too clean
Wheelchairs and walkers
Stained shirts and dirty dresses

In a golden chalice,
the priest raises high
the sweet red wine
“This is my blood”
Offered to the gathered lone
Long life behind
Homes and families gone
Short future ahead
Grave faces facing graves

What is God’s body?
Who is God’s blood?
I eat their longing
I drink their pain