The Painting Lesson, and a Prayer

Two women in hats,
feet solidly planted in the damp grass,
lean toward a canvas
propped against an easel.
One woman dabs intently with a brush,
the other looks out at the ocean,
then makes a staccato gesture--
here, here, and there--
with two fingers,
pointing to an outcropping of rock.
They consider the horizon,
then regard the painting in progress.

There is both lightness and gravity
in the way they work.


God of all
thank you
for the rough loveliness
of nature
and
for whatever it is--
spark, soul, or instinct--
that makes humans
want to make beauty
too.

Surf Check

Surf check at Sammy's:

Clean lines, the swell filling in.

The sun on my back.

Collision

Lost in thoughts of my to-do list

and creeping along in stop-and-go traffic,

I hit my brakes late

and slam into the car in front of me.

I draw in a sharp breath

and motion for the other driver to pull over.

We get out of our cars

and stand by the side of the road,

squinting in the bright sun

as we trade insurance information.

The damage is minor

and no one hurt, but I'm rattled

and apologetic;

he is irritated and insists

on filing a police report.

The officer arrives.

As she writes on her notepad

I look down at the smattering of squashed hotsauce packets

littering the roadside,

prod them with the toe of my boot.

I silently curse my poor timing,

wishing I had taken a different way home

wishing I hadn't looked down.

Wishing it all had been otherwise.

Then I think of Jane Kenyon's poem,

"Otherwise"--

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise

--and remind myself that I have a bad habit

of reading too much cosmic significance

into life's fender-benders:

Is it because I tried to get out of jury duty?

Is God, or the universe, trying to apprehend me

for something I've done

or left undone?

Yes, I could have avoided the accident

but I didn't

and it could have been worse.

I'm walking away from this collision

as is the man in the other car

and it might have been otherwise.

Blue Christmas

It was a December

of golden days

and crisp, sparkling nights.

I saw swooping pelicans

and Orion's belt,

bright blooming aloe

and holiday lights downtown.

Now that the brittle, shedding Christmas tree

is down by the street

and the ornaments have all been put away,

I flip through pictures of beach walks

and parties and presents opened and sunsets.

Most beautiful are the blues--

an azure sky,

the inky ocean

ruffled by an offshore wind,

and

indigo-purple mussels

holding fast to the rocks.

On Visiting Mrs. Blanton's Third Grade Class to Talk About Poetry

Little poets

with bright upturned faces

greet me at the classroom door.

I meet Julian

and Tasha

and Cole

and many others.

We speak of haiku

and poems about cats,

nymphs and goblins.

They listen

and bubble with questions:

Can I read you my poem?

What is your favorite poem?

and, from a charming young journalist, head cocked:

What magazines are on your coffee table at home?

The room vibrates

with the open-hearted, uninhibited creativity

that comes from smart kids

who still know that we all can create something beautiful,

who haven't been told that they can't.

I leave feeling buoyant and blessed.

Afresh

Dew on every blade

of grass. A flashing silver

sun. A day, afresh.

Night Creatures

Between dusk and dark

at the bottom of Oak Street

the halogen glow of my headlights

falls on a group of figures

jumping

on a mattress in the middle of the road--

flashes of long, tossing hair,

a loud whoop,

laughter.

I smile. Teenage girls.

I turn right on Glenneyre

and drive on

with that sense you get

when a creature

passes in front of your car

so quickly

that you only recognize what you’ve seen

after you see it.