“I hate you,” my daughter said to me
When I put her tablet away for a day
And swept her suddenly into my arms
Struggling
And told her I would love her forever
Even in a fight
And felt the tension melt away
Inside my hug.
Hugs and kisses, and other favorite things.
A cicada held tenderly in her hand.
I remember my first child
How much she loved cicadas, too,
Three cycles ago (as we still do).
This one will be married before they come again.
And I’ll be a favorite place for her to go
In her thoughts.
If I never grow up
Loving children like I do
How can I speak of the specialness, in a poem,
Of the thought of her?
Whenever I write, always at my side, in my mind.
O! the magnificence of the female
Mind, form, passion and spirit.
The magnificence of understanding and being understood.
The sparkle in her eyes.
The laughter on her lips.
The sheer happiness of being.
What I love is the poetry of the female
And of the Ode to Joy
And the 72nd hole of the US Open – Tin Cup style.
Champagne and Parmesan.
Uptown funk and singin’ in the rain.
I do protest too much:
Poetry is Mount Everest to me.
Linda Gregg’s poetry.
KT’s poetry.
Shakespeare.
Autumn leaves.
Fresh fallen snow.
Cities I love, especially seeing them again the first time.
Walking.
Family, friends and dreams, of course.
And writing.
“He loved three things, alive:
Anna Akhmatova
White peacocks, songs at eve,
And antique maps of America.
Hated when children cried,
And raspberry jam with tea,
And feminine hysteria.
…And he had married me.“