Poem #31: Hibernation

A tiredness long as shadows in the sun.
Breathing slows. Eyes roll.
Heart beats a holding pattern,
remembers first love. Legs twitch
and sprint through grassy fields,
hands cup petals and creek water.
This test-run for death. January
somnolence. Second gestation.
Laying down in hollowed-out darkness,
moon rays casting, nature’s snow
blankets covering, soundproofing.
Snow quiet. Just before the stretch,
the yawn, the new dawn, the pencil
to paper—the poem, the song, or child
who becomes the mother of a child
who becomes the mother of a child
who becomes the mother of a child.

Poem #30: Wolf Moon

New year’s first full moon
lolls in the position of perigee
shrouded in snow clouds.
Can I trust you are there?
with Mars, to the left of you,
reddish and star-like,
bowing in your magnitude
that tilts heads skyward,
breeds madness, begets life--
yet cannot satiate, like a jewel
too grand to pocket or the pull
of tides--showy but of no use
to the cold wolf, who
by Native American legend,
howled to your white eye
in deepest winter hunger.
Tell me: Did you listen?
Did you answer his call?

Poem #29: Snow Day in Tennessee

It starts as most snow days in Tennessee,
with no snow. Predictions of inches,
blizzard-like conditions, unprecedented
accumulations, just wet dreams of forecasters.
Civilized adults in hand-to-hand combat
over the last loaf of bread and jug of milk
at the market. Salted roads. Sleds sold out.
Children poised at windows with mitten hands.
Schools closed and businesses slowed.
Traffic near nonexistent. All crews on call.

So much depends upon the first snowflake
painted with hope onto the winter canvas.

Poem #28: Seasonal Longing

Last fall,
the trees slowly undressed—
leaves strewn about their trunks.
Embarrassed in their presence, we looked away,
looked to the evergreens, who covered their slender branches
and hid their crevices with needles, pinecones, and sap,
so as not to leave us shivering all winter
with longing for spring’s beds
of blossoming buds.

Poem #27: Zombies or Blame It on the Automatic Brain

6 a.m., NPR in the background, navigating
the route I follow each morning. My hands drive,
the way fingers recall a lock’s combination without
contemplating numbers, or a telephone number
dialed for years, or the curves and arches of the body
of a mate. The NPR bit drones on about how people
possess an automatic brain—a part of the brain
that would choose cake over fruit if a person
under duress, such as having to hold a 7-digit code
in mind, is suddenly asked to choose between
a piece of chocolate cake or a bowl of fruit.
My mind skips to my day’s lessons. Did I plan
sufficiently for first period, did I make copies,
will the Internet go down during that clip?
The 31 poems in 31 days challenge pops into my mind.
How will I produce poem #27 today? I’m poem tired,
poem spent, poemed out. My mind trolls for a topic,
taking in all I drive past—barren trees, icy cars, lightless
houses, the bus stop, where people fully dressed stand
in total darkness, not facing each other. Naturally,
I decide they must be zombies. My poem will be about
zombies, of course. Not about my marriage, my children,
or teaching. I choose zombies. Who else would be outside
in 27 degrees? Zombies waiting for a zombie bus driver
to come and cart them to where zombies work, where
they will fall in step with other zombies in halls
and onto the elevator and ride up to their zombie cubicles,
until their chipper boss arrives decidedly late
with coffee steaming and a smile on his ridiculously awake
face. He’ll sing out, “Good morning, Vietnam!” And—
as if on cue—the zombies will roll their bloodshot eyes,
lick their cracked white lips, raise their arms
to the zombie stance, and slowly, oh so slowly
amble toward the warm-blooded human being.

Poem #26: Little Stone

Turning your tiny blue jeans inside out,
I wonder what stained your knee yellow.
Did you smile mostly or cry? Miss Susan’s
lively notes quote cute things you say,
but what quickened your heart today,
made you anxious, sent you into giggles?
Only yours to know! You seem too small
to carry it all. When I return from work,
you have forgotten the answers, or maybe I
forget to ask. Mulch has collected in your cuffs,
pouring out like dinosaur dust from playground
excavations. Before dropping the evidence
into the wash, out tumbles a stone
from your pocket. I hold it like a gift;
my fingers inspect your secret, then enclose it
in the palm of my hand. Was it a magic bean?
A pirate’s coin? A fairy tear? A super-power
pellet? A raindrop? Or just perfectly smooth
and comforting. I understand. I collect too.
You are my little stone—and everything.

Poem #25: 1211 Lillian Street

Concrete stairs lead up, up, up
to the white cinderblock church.
Grass and weeds reach ankle high.
Belief pulses throat deep. Crooked
mailbox roadside, messages waiting
to unfold, to be held. Double doors,
double cross. The family just across
the way whose child went missing
years before. No trespassing nailed
to their tree. Sunday hymns float
to their windows, open but barred.