"Dandelions" and Other Poems

Dandelions

When I was a little girl
I picked dandelions for my mother.
I didn't know they were weeds.
Mother never told me.

"For me?"
I heard her say as I approached her,
Bearing my golden bouquet.
She claimed them with benedictions,
Her eyes wide and full of surprise.
Then I followed her into the kitchen. . .

Her hands moved slow and thoughtfully
As she arranged them in a glass of water.
She placed the glass in the kitchen window
Where the sunlight huddled all day.

It was a fitting shrine for our dandelions,
And mother called it "radiant."

Then mother told me the secret of the dandelions
That did not get picked. The ones that lived
In our backyard until they turned to magic white fluff.
She showed me how to "Make a wish and blow!"
We watched the fluff scatter into seeds
As the wind carried them away, far away
To a heavenly garden where even weeds go.

Those were The Sunny Days,
The days of fluffy wishes and wide eyes,
Windy smiles and dandelions,
And kitchen windows of gentle radiance.

---

Tenderness

Let there be tenderness
connected with death.
Let there be fresh flowers
and green grass,
and statues with marble faces
chipped in expressions
of compassion.
Let there be tables spread
with casserole dishes
and cards of sympathy.
Let there be knowing smiles
and reaching hands,
and ears willing to listen
to tearful memories.

Whoever said there had to be wisdom?
Whoever said there had to be answers?
No words could be profound enough.
Tenderness is all that is needed.

---

The Monk and the Horse

The old monk
leaned his head against the nozzle
of the horse who nudged his return,
groaning his gratitude.

A sadistic rider had kept the bit
in the animal's mouth for years,
and so the saint unbridled him
and washed his mouth
with water.

How long, the holy man wondered,
had the creature been denied
his floor of straw and cube of sugar?
Its long gray face and suffering eyes
gave him his answer.

Go then, my pale friend, said he,
gallop on to heaven's pasture
where the grass is sweet
and the horses swift as clouds.

---

Real Presence

When I was a child
believing in the Real Presence
was easy.
God was great enough
to make himself small enough
to live in a host of bread,
and in my heart.

But in my latter days
I seem to find the Real Presence
lurking in forbidden territory,
unorthodox places
like in the face of the waitress
at the restaurant,
and in a newborn puppy,
and in the rosebush
that blooms in my backyard.

Even last night
while I gazed at the full moon
I swore I could see it being elevated
by the stars, consecrated
while the wind sang
'This is my body.'