For students who have chosen to leave this earth

       For you
       we stand
       arms out
       reaching grasping
       longing missing
       crying howling
       through holes
       in the air
       where you
       once stood.

       Our hands
       hang empty
       at the ends
       of our arms.

       The piles
       of ideas
       words papers
       maps charts
       essays books
       ink blots
       chalk dust
       false starts
       brave conclusions
       our connections -
       these piles
       tip over
       topple scatter
       pour out
       spill splatter
       bleed and
       we stand
       arms out
       hearts falling
       faces closing
       bones showing
       skins hiding
       knees knocking
       wishing wanting
       reaching grabbing
       for ghosts
       shadowy impulses
       of you.

       Seconds days
       years eons
       click fly
       tumble by
       until finally
       we are able
       to stand
       arms out
       letting you
       go.

Paradoxical Earth

       click click click

       The earth moves

       in measured paces

       across the skies.

       

       It's a predictable march

       through time

       

       but the wanton gem

       of the universe

       defies predictability

       

       as she glides all night

       in her shimmery, glimmery

       sequined skirts

       

       as she dances her days

       swinging and swaying

       

       as she spins through space

       her waters foaming

       in great swirling wakes

       

       as she trips and trails

       through the universe

       

       my beautiful, measured unmeasured

       paradoxical woman, Earth.

       

Drifting-on-air days

       What landscape is this
       where women float by
       on crisp blue-sky air
       laughing about their past?

       Or is it their laughter
       that is drifting,
       lazily along,
       under the warm autumn sun?

       Either way, the air
       is perfectly warm-cool
       when the women gather
       floating on their laughter

       the way only Colorado
       September-mountain-air days
       can be brilliantly forever sky blue
    
       the way only golden-orange
       aspen leaves ripple
       and below them
       breezy streams tumble,
       shining all the way down.

       This is the landscape that-
       these are the women who-
       hold me up

       and in me, their glow shimmers
       even after we descend
       from our blue-sky-floating
       drifting-on-air days
       to the everyday lives we lead.

       This is the shimmer
       that holds me up.

Following your hum

       Following your hum

       through autumn’s thin air

       reminds me

       of chasing dragonflies,

       longing to see up close

       the blues and greens

       and golds of their wings.

       As you hum bits

       of song endings,

       float and flit

       with a strange fragility,

       I long to see through

       your translucent skin

       to your tiny bones,

       long to know

       the beginnings of your songs. 

Circling: Under the Yellow Sun

       I.

       For years

       under the black shroud of night,

       I have been alone

       with my own voice

       echoing through the chambers

       of my brain.

       Night after night

       I cling to wakefulness,

       do all that I can

       to avoid the hulking monsters

       of my dreams.

       II.

       For years

       in the warm yellow light of day,

       my eyes closed,

       I’ve been dozing,

       comforted by the blanket

       of familiar noises:

       my husband cooking

       and folding clothes,

       my daughters

       circling and circling around me

       in hopeful spirals.

       III.

       Sometimes I feel

       two girls’ eyes  

       peering into the place where I reside

       and the black birds of their sadness

       settle heavily

       as one great flock

       in my ribs.

       I choke on the grief.

    
       And so I fight 

       to share in their daylight,

       pin my lids open

       until I can see,  finally,

       the warm yellow sun

       spilling over

       their warm yellow hair,

       and for a while,

       the flock of birds

       lifts off my chest

       releasing me

       from its weight.

       IV.

       When they’re grown,

       I hope they don’t wander in a daze
       for too long,

       feeling alone and abandoned.

       I hope they know

       the electricity of the yellow sun,

       the safety and softness of night,
       and so I fight my way back

       through the tunnel

       of backward nights and days,

       to join them,

       to circle and circle in dizzy spirals,

       loving them so much

       under the yellow sun.