Poem

Making the House Ready for the Lord
by Mary Oliver

D ear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but
still nothing is as shining as it should be
for you. Under the sink, for example, is an
uproar of mice—it is the season of their
many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves
and through the walls the squirrels
have gnawed their ragged entrances—but it is the season
when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And
the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard
while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow;
what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling
in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly
up the path, to the door. And still I believe you will
come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox,
the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know
that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,
as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.

The One Hundredth Day

Eva, on your one hundredth day, it rained, and we slept late then walked the slick streets. I felt bad that the color that saturated our weekend had given way to such gray. Some days it rains, I told you. The clouds just get too heavy. When we got home, I burnt the toast and begged you to nap but you wouldn't, so we laid in bed and read poems, and the rain kept falling. Some days, I said, it's Monday and it rains. And then you cried. You were just so very tired and you cried. Some days, it's Monday and it rains and you lay in bed and cry and read poems. And that's okay, I told you. It might even be beautiful.

Day 99

Evabird, day 99, and the weather is warming, and the cherry blossoms are on their way to blooming, and you, my little love, are blooming too. Yesterday, we stood with friends on the street corner, and we were all so in love with you, so delighted by your smile, that we missed the light to cross. We thought we might never need to go anywhere, that we would be perfectly content staring down at you, but we moved on anyway and found ourselves with a wide-eyed you at the farmer's market marveling at the giant sweet potatoes and buckets of tulips, the fresh cheeses and crusty bread. Later, you and I wandered the promenade and watched the sun set over the city. Ah, girly bird, it hasn't even been a hundred days, and already you have cracked my heart open so wide and deep that I can't even remember life without you. O, my littlest love, bloom. Bloom. Bloom.

Confession Thursdays

So...I've decided to confess something every Thursday, and I'd love if you'd join me by commenting here or by posting a Thursday Confession on your own blog.

Deep breath (in preparation for redemption).

Today's confession: I have to admit--sitting here attached to the pump in preparation for going to teach--that it feels good to have some other responsibility today. Sometimes the weight of being a mother is massive. Is she being stimulated enough? Overstimulated? Shouldn't she be napping/eating/pooping/batting at things/shaking a rattle/doing sign language?

This morning, though, I've got other things on my mind (or do I?). Regardless, it's nice to know she's upstairs asleep next to her dad, and for the next few hours, she's someone else's responsibility. That way if she ends up in therapy when she's in her twenties, I can blame it on all those cold Thursday mornings when I'd leave my infant child at home to go to teach poetry.

Thank God I'm not a Brain Surgeon

So tomorrow I'm going back to work--just for a few hours, a Thursday morning poetry-teaching gig to last me through summer--but I'm terrified. I'm afraid I'll walk in and start counting toes and talking about piggies going to market; I'll holler out Old MacDonald and sing tweet tweet tweet; I'll make raspberries and say A-goo and roll 'em up, roll 'em up, throw 'em in a pan.

I don't know how women do it. I understand why they would want to or why they might need to, but really, I've been wearing this mommy hat [trust me: the hat-hair (read: wild garbled unwashed mess) is evidence] for so long now that putting on my working hat--let alone buttoning my working pants!--seems next to impossible.

Hello, I will say, I'm your poetry teacher, and I'll cross my fingers that I don't have poop on my shoulder or milk spots on my shirt. What is poetry? I'll ask them. The light will stream through the windows, and hopefully, someone will raise a hand and say something--anything--because right now, I'm not sure what I'd say if the room stayed silent.

The Scrambler- Issue 25, December 2008

Old poems found a new home. So glad. Poems need good homes.

The Scrambler- Issue 25, December 2008
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Snow Song