December Trees: A Way of Seeing

Backyard Sunset ~ Lambent Sky

Not long ago, a dear friend wrote to say
"We need a poem -- but would prefer a miracle."
I sent her this poem, which is as close
to a miracle as anything I can think of:
Between You and Me

Don't you love that breathlessness before dusk
when trees are crisp and black against December?
Less a fragment of late afternoon
than a way of seeing, each roof and branch
pressed flat against lambent sky.

I used to believe I knew myself.
I used to believe I was separate
from what broke in waves around me.
Lately, I have sensed a different way
of moving through days --
something softer and slower, like pushing gently
through clouds and water, only you, too,
are the clouds and the water,
the green memory of someone you loved
and the distance and the grief.

It's all right if you don't understand.
It's all right if you want a life
as polished and precise
as one of those twigs stenciled on twilight.

But have you ever walked home at noon or at dusk,
in winter or in summer, and not remembered
how you found your way back?
And when you realized you had not been
you, but all that you walked on, and by,
and through, weren't you happier for it?
Couldn't you almost name who you were?

by Francine Marie Tolf, contemporary American poet
found in her book Prodigal

See also my earlier post
"Love Me Love My Cats"

Thanks again to Francine for her generosity
in sharing her work and her beautiful poetry.
The December sky means even more to me each evening,
now that I have the words of this poem
to carry around inside my head!

Love Me Love My Cats

Beautiful Beaumont (atop the table)
and Queenly Pine (under the table)
(named for the streets on which we lived in Philadelphia)

Why I Write About Them

I like how the black one sits on our dining room table
with her forearms straight out in front of her, like a sphinx.
I like how the lids of her green eyes
grow heavy when I compliment her,
and how her brother, who is corpulent,
sways from side to side as he walks
with an elephant's slow grace.

Sometimes when he is sleeping in his basket,
warm belly rising like a croissant,
mere purring cannot express his bliss
and he begins to hum.
And the female, who misleads
with her queenly profile,
moans loud with contentment at night--
long, irritating moans, like Keith Jarrett*
making love to his piano keys at a jazz concert --
that sink into growls
when she is nudged awake.

I like how their own sneezes
astonish them: how they shake their heads afterwards
with the shock of cartoon characters.
How they lean forward politely, nostrils quivering,
to smell a bare finger,
are lions suddenly when they yawn.

(I like how each yawn ends with an elegant smack,
as if a slim compact were being snapped shut.)

They ignore my bad habits.
They endure my wild kisses.
They are not metaphors for anything.

~Francine Marie Tolf, Contemporary American Poet

I came across this enchanting poem in the Fall 2007 edition of my favorite poetry magazine, Plainsongs, published out of Hastings College, Nebraska.

If you've ever loved a cat or two, you'll know right away that Tolf has captured their proud and lazy essence with feline perfection. I've been bestowing wild kisses upon cats since I was nine years old and my father warned me that kissing the kittens would give me a furball in my stomach. Haha! Funny Daddy!

*Listen to Keith Jarrett
play "Autumn Leaves"