New baby, in love and the necklace can be returned

I'll remove the necklace that I have worn since Week 15

When I didn't think I would see this day, and now it is here.

I am holding my brand new grandson, the one we hoped and prayed for,

The one who would wipe away the grief we held since losing Owen, 

This one will fill our hours with the busy-ness that is the work of loving

A newborn, the early months of diaper changes and figuring out why he is crying,

The work of comforting as best we can, the hours of tummy time, 

The strolling and rocking, the tickling and giggling, the first smile that 

Erases the fatigue of sleepless nights, and the time with the parents, the endless

Conversations about him, never a lapse of interest, I know this.

The necklace will go back to the old woman who passed it from hand to hand,

To me,  each offering a blessing at week 15, for this day to arrive, for this joy to unfold.

The necklace has done its work, the baby has arrived and I am in love

With him.

(Note:  the original poem about the necklace is here:  https://le-poeme.blogspot.com/2025/03/blog-post_26.html)

 

Feeding fish

on a hot afternoon, let's visit the pond

Where the fish are swimming lazily until that moment

When they see us hovering above holding the jar of fish pellets

And on this hot afternoon on August, the last day of the 

Visit, the one where mamapapa went to work leaving these

Small people in our care, I'm happy to sit quietly,

Paying close attention to how close they are to the edge

And listening to the plop plop of fish food hitting water,

Seeing the wide white open mouth of Grandma Fish grazing

The surface of the water, hearing the scream of delight

"He ate it!" And knowing that this moment is its own kind

Of paradise, the heaven surely has small fish ponds where 

Children spend hot summer afternoons, their reflections

Wavy in the cool water. 

 

The long lost sewing scissors and seam ripper

 So when the buttonhole was poorly placed

(See last post), what to be done without a sharp scissor,

Or better yet, a seam ripper,  knowing that once upon a time

The two tools could be found in the sewing box.

A savage rip using the wrong tool did the damage

(And made me sad), yet in the following days,

They were found, in a large box into which the man

(Who said he could help but did not in any productive way)

Had placed so many precious items that had appeared to him

"Unnecessary" or "unknown", as some men do not understand

The essential value of a good pair sewing scissors or this odd 

Little necessary tool called a seam ripper.

Alas, it is too late for the buttonhole that as poorly placed,

Yet, the next sewing project will be undertaken with gratitude,

The needed tools back inside the old metal tool box

That doubles as a sewing kit.

Indeed.

The long awaited buttonhole

Every time my pillow brushed against the makeshift curtain,

It fell onto my head, exposing me to the brilliant sunshine, my eyes

Popping open when they wish to be closed in a mid-day nap. 

I cursed again at my shoddy attachment, binder clipped to the fabric

(Oh, such beautiful fabric from Senegal!)

Yet so loosely held, the clip to fabric. 

So

A curtain rod?  No, that's a purchase, a hammer, some screws, some sewing.

A buttonhole! Yes, to secure onto the nails already in place!

The long awaited buttonhole, that holds the fabric in place

(I checked)

So that when my long-awaited guests arrive, tired from their long journey

And settling into a midday nap, when their pillows brush against the

Makeshift curtain, it does not fall onto their sleeping heads,

Pulled taut, it holds in place

I smile to think of how they will sleep so peacefully.

 

How to spend the day

 When I opened my eyes, finally ceding to the raucous birds that they had won, the day would begin even if it was only 5:30 a.m.

And I wondered how many layers of clothes would be needed once I exited my warm sleeping bag, 

And what on Earth I would do the next 15 hours until I could gratefully close my eyes again, in this God-forsaken wilderness lacking all my usual diversions

So I layered on some clothes and found a small path leading  down to the lake where I found Paradise and enough to keep me occupied 

Watching fog roll across the water, noticing all the different heights of willow at the shoreline and the ever changing kaleidoscope of color on the hillsides.  

I came back this evening, hauling my folding chair and book, my husband, to dangle my feet in the water, feel the wind cool my skin so warmed from the sun.  

Once home, I will listen more closely to the birds and I will sit in my garden, to notice the different heights of the plants, to watch the passage of the shadows across my small Paradise.

Thank you for the flowers

 Thank you for the Flowers on the front cover of your book, the one I randomly picked off the shelf, feeling somewhat in need of flowers from someone who could maybe be my friend. 

Where are you, friend, on this rather gloomy day that watches our country burn to ashes, where children drown in Texas floods. 

And why can't I laugh off the ridiculousness of it - well because I live here, after all.  

It's a day to write a poem on my phone sitting in the bookstore, something I never do, except that

There is a woman at home scrubbing baseboards that have not been cleaned in decades and my husband is riding his bike along mountain streams

So I am here seeking solace, an escape from some parts of reality that pull me down, that even pushing big weights at the gym does not budge.

So thanks for the flowers, the poems inside that may, or may not, speak to me, but at least, you exist.

This is all the garden that I want

He says that I would be bored, but what does he know

about gardening, about finding help that actually knows what a weed is

(in spite of their enthusiastic proclamations of knowing all about weeds),

and what does he know about drip irrigation, busted lines, water in the basement.  

He says that I would be bored, but I think I would be perfectly happy with a tiny garden.

Like this one, with Saint Francis holding some water for birds next to a couple clumps

of beautiful yellow blooms.  

I threaten that I want to move away from this house with this big garden, 

and I see him cringe, visibly.  

So, I'll whittle away at this garden, cover it with hardscape and mulch, get rid of

all those places that simply grow weeds, that become a jungle in the back corner.

I'll get rid of the attempt at a compost pile, which invites pack rats,

how they love the warmth and the food.  

He says that I would be bored, but I'm going to do all that I can to get bored by

whittling away at this overwhelming mess of a garden, little by little,

with the help of people who know nothing, but are maybe willing to learn.