Today is my stepdaughter Laura's 21st birthday. Tonight, we will gather at her mom's house for dinner-- one big happy crazy family-- me, my husband, my daughter, Laura, her mom, the mom's boyfriend, and Laura's best friend. We will eat Nancy's amazing meal and toast with champagne and tell stories and laugh and be grateful for her life and all it has given us.
But this morning, as I have most mornings of her life, whether she was waking up at our house or her mom's, I start with writing-- with reflecting in quiet, poetic ways that connect me to my heart.
Here are 4 poems I have written for Laura over the years.
Happy Birthday, Po!
****
Laura's SongHe carries you up high
I walk beside below
You call my name and sing
A song for me alone:
"If, if I was a witch
I was a good witch good"
Not were but was, I think:
I was a witch, and good?
"And ride a horse in sand"
A horse in sand, you sing
I dreamt a witch, on horse
You sing some more, I think:
Was I your age, at three?
Which witch was I, at five?
Was I a witch, or she?
Where was that horse, at night?
*****
KoreI start the day with music in my room at home.
I have no other lover, mother, than myself alone.
I leave the house of elders, start running to my life.
My body, quick and hungry, my mind, a waiting knife.
I see the older women watch my legs as I run.
Their eyes hit my skin with wild envy. I am so young.
In the world, I use my heart and feel no fear.
It beats faster when what I love comes near.
Colors and voices feed me instead of food.
When I walk I love to watch my bones move.
I am almost a boy I am so thin.
When I kiss one, I kiss my own skin.
I do not yet hate boys like women.
They have not hurt me like men.
In my world of music, color, shape and skin,
I still forget what later will remember. Until then
I am my body, filled with wheat and foam.
Days I dance, nights I sleep alone.
Even other bodies in my bed, I am alone.
I have learned to love the daybreak.
I can run outside again.
I will not always be so lonesome in my stride.
The day will come, and I will trust it.
I will run to it like I have before.
Before I reach the sun they will stop me.
There will be women who will hate me.
There will be men who will know me.
There will be boys who will beat me.
In the middle of the circle, I will search.
For the first time, I will want another girl.
I will not see her there.
They will enclose me, men and boys and women.
They will dance me into the ground.
I will go under. I will come back up.
I will bring other girls with me.
******
Hummingbird is a Symbol of JoyShe chirps
briefly
at the rose
of Sharon
before I turn
my head
and she
whizzes
on by. I
have heard
she is
a symbol
of joy.
I saw her
years ago
after we
planted
the scarlet
bush for
the daughter
now 18—
then nine,
we were
just married—
neither
was high.
Now the tree
bends with
the weight
of its
blossoms,
as tall as
our house—
and the daughter,
almost as big
as her father,
leaving for college,
no longer quiet
around strangers,
nor skinny
as a mouse.
The hummingbird
is a baby,
her chirp short,
body small
and afraid.
She will learn
like the daughter
and I did,
to sing
a full song,
hover closer
to kindness,
let muscle grow
across the map
of bones
that nature
has laid,
like a plan
or a promise
faithfully made.
****
I Loved This Landscape Into BeingIt was the house of my husband
once, but women gathered together
to make a plan. We would reclaim
the land through our loving.
Paula provided pink roses, said
they were hard like a marriage,
took work. Angela planted
crepe myrtle in front of the
bedroom, said to learn to keep
some things in the dark.
My mother-in-law cut back
briars around the foundation,
said get rid of what has hurt you,
this is a place to be safe.
We put in the rose of Sharon
for Laura, who was seven.
Now she is grown and the bush
is a tree as big as the house.
My husband laid sod and cut
the trees—you know how men are—
they need space for their balls.
But then he gave me a rocking
bench big enough for the whole
family to sit in and watch leaves fall.
We put in another rose of Sharon,
this time lavender, when my daughter
was born. Later my mother gave me
Saint Francis holding a bird,
and the birds like to sit on his head,
round and shorn. They have planted
their gardens, too, the birds:
yellow evening primrose,
sunflower, chokecherry tree,
morning glories and millet and beans.
I loved this landscape
into being, and when I die,
I will return here in dreams.
Yes, I received help, and yes,
I could not have done it alone.
But never underestimate
the power of a woman who decides
to claim the earth as her own.
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