poem to the new year

There you are, as always,
approaching, approaching,
dangling like a mess of carrots,
playing your constant peek-a-boo,
inescapable as a virus
and suddenly the pressure is on
to make those final, hopeful amends,
reduce oneself into a slim, aerodynamic spectacle,
and finally, in a last-ditch, gut-clenching effort,
to morph into sudden, spectacular greatness.

As always, you are like religion.
It's hard not to want to please you.
But instead of a great leaping, evangelical stride
what usually happens is an evisceration,
me peeling my own layers, scrubbing the dirt off like mad,
demanding enormous things of myself at the end of December
I "forget" just weeks into January,
which is when the guilt sets in,
simple and cold and sharp as ice.

What I want, I suppose, is for you to be a little gentler
with your arrival, not so earnest and punctual.
Don't worry if you're late this time.
I don't mind if you finish your book, drink another cup of tea, sleep.
I'm fine, really.
Can entertain myself plenty.
Buy something nice, on sale.
Rent a movie.
Enjoy what's left in the donut box.
Stay out of the rain.
Keep myself dry and soft and happy
for a little while longer.

Prayer for the Pear-Lime Salad orMy Mixed Feelings about the Holidays

By some weird cyclical coincidence,
the interfaith couples of the world are finally
forced to confront their worst nightmare -
the collision of the winter holidays.

Laurie's mother-in-law sees this as an opportunity
to introduce the good Jewish girl to the family's
hidden jewel, the great goyische specialty
of pear-lime salad.

The word "salad," Laurie says, is sheer conjecture.
An outright lie. It's not really a salad, after all,
but some cold gellid concoction offering
very little in the way of good nutrition.

But it'll be so festive, the mom-in-law insists.
So festive.

Yesterday, dodging traffic and late closings
of the town's bustling retail outfits,
I, too, began to hate the holidays.

I mean, the sheer madness of it, this trotting out
of santa hats and reindeer sweaters and last-minute sales,
these bottlenecks in the aisle of every grocery store,
the incessant ringing of Salvation Army bells.

And yes, the resurrection of
near-extinct family recipes,
which, like cockroaches,
keep surviving past all expectation.

Each year, it's the same old thing -
the race to the front of the line,
the careen into the good parking space,
the racking up of credit cards,
and the offer of a pear-lime salad
because it's just that time of year again
and we need to remember
how to be cheerful
and who should get which present
and all that other bullshit.

It's hard when the calendar
doesn't quite end on this note,
when you can't wrap things up
in the perfect harmony of
woolen knitwear and yuletide carols and jello molds.

I could not possibly fall for another stirring round
of Jingle Bells, or Woodland's cheerful Hanukah display.
Laurie wants to obliterate the happy salad
and douse her afternoon with white wine instead.

This bright display of vigorous optimism
is just camouflage. And the tiny, pulsing vibrations lying under
the cheering section of last-minute sweaters and pear-lime salad
tell the real story.

We're all delicate as frost,
permeable as nectarines.
The world outside the sales rack
is spinning so fast and so hard
no wonder we'd rather forget
how each day could break us all apart
like it was nothing at all.

no more looking down

what with the rain and driving wind
the whipped up frenzy of other people's overcoats
and nothing to watch outside except
December bearing down,
it is hard enough just to keep my eyes
on level ground.

even walking the path toward home,
i barely miss the slippery patch on the bridge,
the stray tennis ball threatening an ankle break.

in the day's final countdown,
I want only a dry pair of socks,
a cup of tea, silence.

but what my walk ignores goes beyond
the middle distance of forks in roads.

had i waited,
i might have seen a girl
splashing life into a puddle.
foregoing her mother's insistence on a good umbrella,
she'd run outside, into the heart of the storm,
wanting the pure abundance of it,
the feeling of mischief or bravery or just
sheer glee.

if i'd waited, i'd have seen her
heave herself into the heavy air,
part the rain with unrepentant hands,
and splice the very earth
with her joy.

spontaneous

stubborn miracles, like this
city garden, alive in spite of the vicious, jettisoned dirt
of its neighboring pedestrians, who toss dead cigarettes
and flimsy drugstore plastic wrap as if these
were the real harbingers of fertility.

the garden forgives these clumsy theatrics,
and survives well beyond its expected lifetime,
even into the thick of december.

i wonder, somehow, if winter
brings out the best in everything.
the cold silencing, even briefly,
our hot and radical blood.
ice sheeting our windows to distort the terrible view.
some storm passing through long enough
to cover our bodies in a wash of spectacular clarity.

and for the garden, something of an anointing,
a dare, a push to extremes.

can you survive this?
can you survive this?

some unusually warm night,
a spontaneous flash of adventure
electrifies the earth,
and the garden just says yes,
I can.

where to?for kirsten

ignore the weathered pathway,
the chiseled directions
the far-off, fragrant promise.

ignore the wind
the ardor
your impeccable standards for safety.

ignore speed.
ignore
the expectation of a handrail.

ignore the outlook,
the voluptuous fantasy,
the glossy, glimmered possibilities.

ignore your shoes
the rip in your striped socks
the small fissures of doubt or disappointment.

this is where you are.
this is the only place you can possibly be.

even if
no one else is visible for miles
and you want, more than anything,
to stop the pending disaster of your legs,
to surrender that piece of yourself that still hopes.

do not swivel from your purpose.
do not dash yourself against the sand, striking innocent driftwood.
do not turn around, back to the parking lot
where your old car idles, leaking its silly, extravagant oil.

even when the sidewalk ends,
there is a sea somewhere just beyond,
waiting for you.