a stack of post-its
curling and yellow
(not with age, just as they are)
and the cryptic scrawls
phone message
half-formed grocery list
idea for code or poem

plants haphazard
unlabeled, unknown
jumbled in the bed
at the far end of the garden
to wait under leaf
rain, an occasional snow
until spring brings
inspiration and energy

after the model is assembled
three Legos at the bottom
of the plastic bag
not enough to use
for anything
toss them in the tub

a box of what’s left over
after the files are tidy
and the drawers are clean
which is to say
a dozen projects
tiny to infinite
belonging to nothing else
a form, a catalog
a phone number
markers of larger things
I wanted to do
and did not make time for
or that I should have done
but did not want to
or was afraid I could not finish.

I’m not sure if I’m at all happy with this particular poem, but I’m glad I tried for it. Maybe I’ll come back in a few days and edit.

***

in a stack of boxes in the back of a closet
is one marked “XMAS” in black sharpie
in his clear & tidy printing

in the attic of my mother’s house
is a box 3 feet square, at least

this one is smaller
small enough to pick up
light enough to carry easily

no glass balls in this box
we’ve never had a tree big enough
to need them

but in a silver box from the Gap
that must’ve held a gift once
4 matched clear glass ornaments
from a friend, from the year
that I stuffed a full-size tree
into a studio apartment

and from that same year
a similar number of starched lace snowflakes
and a single impossibly tiny
origami swan in pink paper

plus two brass ornaments
from my childhood
engraved with my name and the year
1977, 1978

the rest of the box
is unopened lights
a handmade plaid treeskirt
3 dreidels
too much needlework
from my mother

also an amazing quilted table runner
in luscious greens and reds
gold and silver both
also from my mother

a stocking from my aunt
in the shape of a Victorian boot
pink and green, my name in looping white
it looks lonely pinned to the wall
with a pushpin
over the table where the presents are stacked

I keep forgetting to go looking
for a stocking for him, something
special that can go back into the box
come January

on the edge of the bike lane
a raven
its heart splayed out

the raven’s wing
crushed, pushed aside
into the bike lane

in the tunnel
of midsummer trees
a flash of sky

fog curls
scotts broom, grass, shrubs
yellow construction sign