the end of a very long era

Hello! I have moved myself over to sub stack. You can find me here (entirely free of course). I love this blog, it's an online chronicle that is so meaningful and fun to me--I won't be deleting it. But any new poetry/writing/book recs I will be sharing over on my sub stack. All my love, b. 

if i loved you less

I do not write you love poems.

I don't know why,

except the words that come never seem to fit.

I do know that you tucked my hair behind my ear, 

while I told a funny story,

when we were still very young.

that you have a freckle on your bottom lip.

that you met my rage with tenderness in the early days of June. 

that you have held me steady as the earth has buckled under my feet.

And I know that no amount of time spent laughing under the covers, 

much too late at night in our too small bed

or conspiring to surprise our children 

or debriefing on the drive home

or snacking, feet intertwined in the pantry,

would ever be enough.

two hands (or 6)

oh Junebug, please take your time with this

there is no rush

big brown eyes and purple glasses and no opinion on your hair

dances and original songs and "listen, dude..."

pick out a poster from the book fair and scrape your knee 

(but no more stitches, I am begging you)

wave goodbye to your friends after school with your pink helmet on

"see you later alligator" to the crossing guard and still reaching for my hand

teach your little brother rock paper scissors in the bath

smash walnuts from the neighbors tree in the backyard

"hey mommy can you help me" and clearing your plate 

leaving your room 100 times each night before bed

only the black dress for church

only the polka-dot rain boots for school

"mommy what day is tomorrow?"

crickets and ladybugs in jars with grass and too-tight lids

jumping as high and as hard as you can on the trampoline at 7:14am

never enough syrup on your waffles

"hey si-wi, pway: fwi-wer" = "hey siri, play: Thriller"

self-portraits on your nightstand and dried corn from the pumpkin patch in all your pockets

my first

my tidal wave

my funny girl

my dream come true

please take your time with this

there is no rush

old friend

I don't think about it much anymore, 

but I used to.

There was the year I worried it sick.

I cried at parties and after parties and on driveways and on stoops.

Almost mad with the thinking about it.

Then there was the year I waited for it to pass. 

Curled in to myself.

Never a reprieve that would last.

Now there are quiet drives

and quiet walks.

The space it left fills.

The silence gives way to dreaming.

It has left me now, at last.

And because a haunting never goes one way,

I hope it has left you too.

like weeds

you could be fully present

really there

as much as you've ever been

and still it goes.

that they don't keep

is nothing new.

your parents blinked

and your grandparents

and so on and so on and on and on.

just do the best you can.

uncap the baby detergent at the grocery store

inhale deeply

place it back on the shelf

and walk on.

aspens

I like to take my little girl to the mountains 

because it reminds me how little she is

and how little I am

that we are both so little together

september

walking at dusk
in this little town
the dog days finally over
but their memory is all over me
the snow cone stand is gone
the one we sat at 
my head against your shoulder
and first felt that feeling
that maybe September could be this
old men in old houses 
with their doors ajar
blue light frames their bodies 
trees
for the first time in years
honest to goodness trees
orange begins to color the peaks
like a golden march
the slow decent towards us
here on the earth
surprise ghosts as I turn a corner
the delight of it
what is gone for good and what is simply changing?
green to yellow
into the dirt
out the other side as tulips
maybe I'll know on the other side of this winter

magic eraser

you are sleeping upstairs
with your spinning star light
lullabies playing on a never ending loop
your head thrown back and your mouth wide open
or curled up with your legs tucked up underneath you
and I am wiping down the walls.

how did that dirty handprint get up there?
it looks smudgy and impossibly high
houses are strangers and then soul-mates
you just wake up and it's November and it's home.

I have loved houses for many reasons:
the way the light comes into the kitchen,
bay windows,
breakfast nooks,
a butcher block island,
the whirring of an overhead fan,
a weeping willow in the yard.
I love this house for two specific reasons.

I have never once cleaned these baseboards
but I am scrubbing and you are dreaming
and I am going 
we are going
life is change
you can go.
(even if the rates are high, especially if the rates are high?
actually, please don't ever worry about rates
I didn't carry and labor and deliver and pour love and sweat and tears into you for you to worry about interest rates
I am realizing in writing this how much I wish for you to never, ever worry about interest rates)

when the fit isn't what it was
your toes are pinching
the season is changing
if you need space, different air, a bigger circle, more you.
you can go

I cry as I scrub away the pencil marks,
in your dad's handwriting,
tracking how tall you've grown.
remembering a golden hour that will always be 
and never be again.
all the hope and all the reality
weeping and going
life is change and it's beautiful
you are never stuck
grab a magic eraser and quietly say thank you as you walk the empty space you filled for a time and go.