“After the Final No There Is a Yes”

Those words come from Wallace Stevens. They were lived by my late wife Peggy. Today is her birthday. She died in 2021, 104 days after her one-hundredth birthday.

I wrote a book about Peggy entitled, 40 Years of Yes. It is a compilation of my poetry and prose written to or about her over our time together. My 175 pages could not quite capture the essence of her capacious and irrepressible being.  She lived in the moment; what she called the crucial now which was a full embrace of life’s wonderment.

My book did not include her poetry some of which I’d like to share at this time:

I submit to love that springs from nothingness / its opulence expanding / approaching the gift of you… / Nights shine, illumined, even as we sleep.

Oh, the wonder, we tip our heads / move to and fro / in diamond disbelief.

May I be your wine, if not your bread.     

Love flares its invisible yes / out of a quiescence lighting my window /

Through the advancing dark / a sudden blaze / You are the sun’s ambassador.

I / you forget to be old. / Love ties your shoes / a waterfall on the page.

The green mystery of leaves / the aftertaste of tangerines.

                        Excerpts from, Two Is A Sacred Number

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A man deafened by snow / waits for an insinuation of blue.

Your look rests on the curve of my cheek.

What goes unnoticed cheats the soul.

Can these words be winter with your words that match your fingers…

Better to seed the earth / Trees repair the mind.

Everyone looks out the window / wondering if the headlines / move the earth or what / brings hot lentils to the table.

My hand, love’s hand, took yours / we formed a sieve to let the moon slip

/through, return.

We carried sad sidewalks, understood / the fall of leaves / took comfort in their covenant.

          Excerpts from,  Under An Unwed Moon    (Letters at 3AM Press)

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Wait for the silence in the unlit candle / the shoe abandoned by its mate / a chipped cup lying in the sink.

Carnage at the common place./ Blood on the sidewalk sticking to the feet of children / A woman keens /  Far off someone insists on the coming of one blade of grass.

A monk devised the pretzel, / a tribute to our folded arms / in the midst of stings and consolations / I sing through the window of the dried out meadow / stirred by the sudden silver of unpredicted rain.

Lost grace at the curb / A ragged old man in the midst of a crosswalk / His mumbled words speak to the vacant air / Her fingers trace highways along his arm. / In a moment there will be wings, a blue heron. / He moves in her direction / as though singing were a map.

 From Exact Approximations