hypothetical babies

I can't say that I dreamed of being a mother.
The lines in my design were too bold
to be considered a dream.

All the other plots on my plan
(a writer, a traveller, a singer)
were just branches off what I thought
was a fixed path.

Such childish cartography,
mapping out milestones
and hypothetical babies.

Now, not so far away from forty,
and I am still at the chore 
of recalibrating the compass at my core
that keeps giving me false directions.

a slippery sunday tanka

Sun creeps through pained glass 

shattering against white walls 

and dusty floorboards 

as I slip through the shadows 

of yet another Sunday.

"How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become" - Doc Luben

The guilt pushes into the pit of me, like a magnet
pulling my belly button straight through to my spine.
I carry it low. 

It is an aching want that covers every inch of my skin
like I'm waiting on something that will never show
and so can't be named. 

I have forgiven myself for not becoming a mother.
What I can't seem to forgive is that part of me
that still thinks the universe will deliver.  

the first crocus

I used to think that you were bold
peaking through the cold soil
before the rest were sure it was safe.
Scouting it out. Blazing the way.

But I, too, like to show up early -
for doctor's appointments and dinner dates,
meeting up for a hike or the farmer's market.
I set the GPS even when I know where I'm going. 

I see you now, your purple petals shivering
in April's morning frost, counting your breaths
to calm your cluttered mind. Waiting.
Hoping you got it right, that the others
will see you and that you'll survive this. 

full weekend

Sometimes Sunday devours me whole
and I sit heavy in its stomach, upsetting
its chances of getting much else done.

I am like a steak and cheese sub, tempting
time to taste my weighted weekend apathy,
loaded with nothing nourishing.

A set table

we are collecting unopened mail, mostly
from banks, sometimes from insurance companies,
in the center of our unused dining room table.

I mean, unused for dining. 
It serves a purpose.
That's where the mail goes.

And sometimes empty boxes, waiting
to be broken down.
And there's a spot right on the edge
for my late library books.

Instead of chairs, there's
a pew tight against the wall
that could seat three, I'd guess.

For now, that's where the snow shoes go
that we bought for Christmas but have yet to put on.

It's just been so cold lately.
We can't seem to get out.