Sunday

"Do me a favor,"
And I'm quite serious.
I need more yellow flowers,
These are almost spent."

So I trudged to the store
Fending off the Sunday shoppers
And erratic drivers
To gather a bouquet.

Yellow, but not her flowers,
Not the sleek and growing tulips
She had requested,
The wild looking kind
Like the tines of her heart.

Tulips are precious in winter.
But looking back to spring,
To bring such a thing into this season,
That is the request of the aged.

We visited Gram today and took her a bouquet of yellow alstroemeria and golden rod to replace the yellow tulips I'd picked up on the way down last week with my sister. It didn't go over so well. Gram, who is stoic in her manner, seems to be slipping in fragments. Just here and there, thoughts lost and rambled over, small slights and unkindnesses uttered only to be smoothed and glossed over later in the conversation. It's a little heartbreaking.

This whole day has weight.

Night running

Running
Through the quiet riverbed
Outlined with shadow and coyotes.
Silver bands of water weave
Celtic knots into the earth.
All silent, all dark, all blurred
Except my distinctive rhythms:
Even footfall, steady breath,
Jubilant heart.



We ran 7 miles tonight, adding two to our goal of five, just because it felt so good to move.