The tree that sheltered us
during the long ago storm
that blew off the cottage roof,
that hundred some year old tree fell uphill
creating a weave of dry, tangled limbs.
This drought goes beyond the beyond.
I carry water until it hurts;
dishwater is not wasted,
but my tears are not enough.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
August 22, 2021
On the tile roof, a seagull stands strong against the rising down-coast wind. Sun shines sideways through the pepper tree, whose shadows dance wildly inside the parked car, where I wait during this pandemic for take out food, as wind moves everything it can. I have been waiting, quietly, since we hid from the Gestapo, though I didn’t know what I was waiting for. And now, I wait again in this current era of dictators and would-be dictators as that strong bird still stands against a down-coast gale.
September 19, 2020
© Gudrun Mouw
So sorry readers, I rushed to post
forgetting that: “A poem is never finished,
only abandoned.”
—Gudrun
…
FROZEN SOULS – Updated
1 At 5:00 pm guards would start collecting women; children looked through bombed out eaves to see stars, sometimes the moon. Once there was a different kind of light— something conscious. A child inhaled the essence like food she was not getting.
2 Rachel stretches. This 70 years old memory, she thinks, and now another dangerous era. The pandemic needs drastic measures. And the horse porch hearth glows; new beams mix with old. We watch home movies. The hitching post stands idle.
…
(c) Gudrun Mouw
April, 2020
October
1)
I look at the month
of forgiveness—when rains
come down, when the land expands
with relief, and I forgive myself
for every complaint against heat,
though I still save dish water
for the courtyard
as a hot, dry climate
and fading sun
slowly relent.
2)
I do not forget:
The Drought Years
That Year of Fighting Bucks
Coyote Years
The Year of Fawns
That Skunk Family Year
Mountain Lion Years
Bobcat Years
and Years When I Don’t Know
What to Expect.
October 6, 2019
Gudrun Mouw (c)
August Lesson
“August represents pure love,” my teacher’s teacher said;
then, why does hatred pull hatred to the mark?
After two national massacres, today looks
unreal. Hardly a bloom in the courtyard under cold fog
followed by wind over brown, dead grass.
I finish reading another bad book, sip lemon water.
Two friends connect by phone; I am willing to help.
We look for ways to heal, to engage, to find once again
joy hiding among the decades.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
August 7, 2019
MORNING DRIZZLE
Barely visible, a transparent sheet
of moisture falls
to the semi-arid earth.
Something precious stirs—
something momentous like a birth.
Summer Solstice happened;
one more spring has passed.
Morning deer have grazed and gone.
A neighbor’s cat appears on life’s screen,
then, ducks out, under our gate.
How much more is there,
to wonder and to love.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
June 20, 2019
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