Your Sculpture of Found Pieces

Our daughter, Emily, died of a sudden massive heart attack on November 10, 2023 at the age of 47.

We make assumptions about how grief will come, how it should show up, what we will feel, what we are “supposed” to feel, and when it might be “over” (whatever that means). It comes in so many different ways and at such different levels. Always the timing is uniquely its own for each of us.

The genesis of this poem is the memory of seeing a Cooper’s Hawk, launching effortlessly from one of the posts that support the fence around our garden. I remember thinking to myself, “This may happen frequently…I’m just not here to see it.” Somehow that thought—tinged with loss and regret—was at the same time comforting. It came back to me as I sat on our porch with Nela, our other daughter’s family dog, as she sat there, remarkably peaceful on my lap, both of us just watching as the community of creatures and things went about the business of being.

I did not know the poem was about Emily until about 10 drafts into it. From then on, that realization crept into all revisions. Now she feels more completely present in the elms, her sculpture, the birds, the hills beyond…and, yes, the bird dropping on the chair, that immediately reminded me of some of her “found art” creations. (If you are reading this on your phone, turn your phone horizontally to read the poem in its proper format.)

** Reading in Manchester VT, at Northshire Bookstore, Saturday July 19^th, 5:30-6:30 pm.

I am excited to be reading from my new volume of poetry and prose, The Poem of the World, at this remarkable bookstore. Susan and I stop there any time we are near Manchester. It just feels like home. Hope you can join us.

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Your Sculpture of Found Pieces

for Emily

Open porch   binoculars   small dog on my knees   
both of us   ignorant   attentive.   I sit   relinquishing 
impatience   recall a glimpse of Cooper’s Hawk 
gliding from a fencepost beside the garden.   I
remember thinking   How often has she…and this 
the only time I’ve seen her?   A clutch of elm trees  
died five years ago.   The birds and we accept their now 
unending winter.   Suddenly the day takes over.

A coin of bird-drop on the cedar chair-arm 
cream circle   soaked in   hardened on the weathered 
wood   embossed dark matter in the center.   My mind
sniffs—cautious at such casual artistry.   We’ve hung   
a belled rope on the doorknob the dog uses  
to ask for the outside.   She’s nudged five times 
so far this morning.   I keep so busy   missing 
the thing most needed.   This time we simply wait.

A flicker squawks   dips in   lands on a grey limb
pries dead bark away   hammers until satisfied.
A tiny flake of bark breaks free   hums straight at us
hovers   needle-pokes the red plastic feeder a few feet 
from our faces.   A pair of warblers   ochre breasts   
dancing limb to limb.   A goldfinch perches
just above   as if to brag what yellow could be.
Junco grips the steel flame topping your creation. 

I have not let the hugs of comfort touch me   as if   
too much was offered.   But here’s the warmth of 
a small creature in my lap   this charitable glimpse 
of how much I’ll never get to see   
       your iron   rust   
feathers    words    all your makes and marvels   
still   waiting to be.  This calm welcome   its
terrifying patience.
                                  I’ve been mistaking that white 
bell-rope for the crack   of our front door   left open.