Because beautiful memories should be kept in a poem

...for Kelly Rutt

Before she knew cancer was eating her ovaries,

before her body could no longer fight

the war that raged in her cells,

she gifted me a compass

set in a hexagon block of inlaid wood.

Black face with white degree increment lines

and N E S W in bold, kelly green…

bold…

Kelly.

There is a crimson arrow

resting right above N

always seeking true north,

pointing to a path that

leads me back home,

but I must choose

to look,

to learn,

to follow…

truth-seeker,

truth-teller,

way-finder.

She walks with me in my dreams,

arm warm across my shoulder…

the same shoulder she once worked

the knots out of as we soaked at Goldbug,

telling me I carry too much…

now a memory brought to life

on a ruminant night.

She reminds me, hands are instruments

of healing and lifting,

for expressing joy and gratitude,

but become useless when filled

with too many burdens,

when we carry too much.

We don’t need a compass

as we wander thin places,

gathering memories like bouquets

of forget-me-not,

and we are never lost here

long enough.

April 12, 2023

Laurel

Small Roughnesses

I washed my sheets today and hung them to dry outside in the sun, just like you used to do, clipped with wooden pins to a plastic line. 

They hung like white flannel flags of surrender waving at the Arizona heat. And I remembered why you preferred line-dried towels. How you said they smelled of summer and loved the small roughness of fibers that had not been softened by modern conveniences. 

Today, I thought that tomorrow will be four weeks without you, yet every day there's something of you filling the small moments of my day.

Dec 14, 2024

Laurel

A Thin Place

I saw the flicker  

where time escaped 

through a crack 

in the black 

of your pupil 

An unraveling spiral 

of triskelion gathered

what was buried 

long ago 

in the limestone 

of Kinbane. 

The recoil 

snatching at memories 

buried in sand and stone 

and the salted scent 

of Lag na Sassenach 

fogged a thin layer of sweat

in the heat between us.

When the pupil of night 

gathers starlight 

in a Colorado sky

My dreams walk 

the labyrinth of Dara knots.

I touch you again

and time rewinds 

through tangles of fate 

green threads spilling 

from the hands of Urðr.

June 30, 2024