Appreciation for A Warm Morning In January

-

 Appreciation for A Warm Morning In January


The hillside where my black bench sits
insists on springing to life.

It splashes purple and green
around with abandon.

As if it were new-bride-season,
as if baby bunnies were rising again.

How futile, my protest
wait, but its winter!

Who am I to say,
who am I to say?

Let's Connect on Instagram

Coffee Button

Send Sarah Emma Ruth $5 for coffee via Venmo

Popular Posts from this Blog

I Madonnari

-
 I Madonnari We sprinkle in our mira mama between isles of chalk artists.  On hands and knees they make  from pure black top art happen.  Some work alone, others in teams.  My children's tongues teem with questions.  "Who is that?" "Jesus's mom." "Did you see?!" "A Eurasian owl!" "They always hide the best ones!" (Crane Country Day School, my oldest gave that title to you.) We go early to the festival, because my sister says we will avoid the crowds. From the blacktop of their  childhood may they say, rather, "We'd go early to the festival to talk to all the artists."
to the poem »

Something I Have Been Thinking About Lately (originally published as Daily Poem Practice Sept 2)

-
Image
*** if you are reading this on a cell phone, rotate it sideways. It's worth it, I promise.**** ****A practice inspired by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer's  A Hundred Falling Veils  ****   Something I Have Been Thinking About Lately I don’t remember when I started listening to Radio Bronco As a channel to a more fluent More connected version Of my Spanish speaking self.  I have been listening in the car While I wash dishes While I make dinner For some time now, though.  So imagine my horror When sided by my eldest A bilingual child not yet 8 When the Secretary of State Came over the airwaves And in plain English painted horror stories typical tropes about guatemaltecos, salvadoreños everybody, save mexicaños and ended it with “If you are here illegally,  know the US Government is coming for you!” As with all parenting so much of it is in real time: I could have switched it off. I could have said nothing. But instead I turned to her frightened eyes and said “There...
to the poem »

Self Compassion Poem

-
  Self Compassion Poem I saw that  you, bounding over heart full of joy,  head swirling with hope, synchronicities and baby- steps drooling down your chin like life’s ever melting popsicle. That hurt, when she turned away from you. That hurt, when she couldn’t meet you there. That hurt, when she took your promise and upped the anti with her doubt by saying “well, it’s your journey, and one day reality is gonna hit you like a slap in the face.” 
to the poem »

Sobriety and Me (for my kids)

-
 Sobriety and Me ( for my kids) Cutie kids, when it comes to redemption, what I want to bequeath you is it has to be chosen, and that choosing never ends. Getting drunk is, literally,  always an option. Each year sober the ticket price of doing so  rises. As an addict-in-recovery everyday you get a special visit  from these three fun aunties: Ms. “What are you willing to obliterate?”  Good ol’ “What, on bad dice, are you willing to roll?” and their compassionate sister,  “How many people are you willing to, knowingly, hurt?” Everyday you sip your tea with them, until you choose your “nones” and “nothings” and surrender to the endless power your human soul inherited to endure. Even still, other elixirs will find you, so save yourself some heartache, choose to find other sobrinas , choose to not to go it alone. The only things that can hurt you are the things you hide. So gather, listen, to not all those you expect,  but to all who too are willing, In s...
to the poem »

Dish Diva

-
  Dish Diva My sink-full of dishes’s got an attitude like a teenager who  insists on wearing  pajama pants to school. I, a tired and aged mother, Barricade the door, Robed in fluff and armed with  a wooden spoon: “Back, back I say!  And don’t come out Until you look presentable”  The exertion fatigues me so I collapse, and that sink-full Of dishes walks diva like right on Over me, ready to carry on with her  Monday. 
to the poem »