The hardest thing

with my two grown children,

each with new babies,

is letting them grow down

into themselves.

I had them

close to the bone

in two years and I survived

the feedings, washings,

readings to, puttings to bed,

keeping some things in order

on a shoestring

though the cost

to me was a barrenness

of long lonely days

until I was sure

nothing alive could sprout

from me ever again.

All things rub together

into nothing.

This is where we vibrate.

Slowly, invisibly

and then the tiny tendril flame.

Holy life

The sun’s yolk

spreads

neon pink

and orange

across the pan

of sky.

Broken to flow

it bleeds

like this

everywhere

eventually

in one day

egalitarian,

as needed

Queen Anne's lace in April

After a winter of nearly

a full alphabet of storms,

from Atlas almost to Zephyr —

            conquering kings, hunters,

            warriors, destroyers —

prostrate stalks and grasses

like sickled wheat

layer the meadow,

unquestioning, submissive,

as if stepped on by gods,

except every few feet

where thin stems stand

stiff, unbent, lace collars

intact, rising like peaceful

purveyors of xenia,

the ancient obligatory gift

of hospitality and protection

to strangers, however

violently they might come.

* * *
Added at 10:08am:

I am excited by a one-on-one "workshopping" from a friend who suggests this edit. I think it is an improved, tightened version, and I appreciate it!

After a winter's alphabet of storms,

from Atlas almost to Zephyr —

            conquering kings, hunters,

            warriors, destroyers —

prostrate stalks and grasses

like sickled wheat

layer the meadow,

submissive,

stepped on by gods

except where thin stems stand

unbent,

lace collars whole,

rising like

purveyors of xenia,

the ancient obligatory gift

of hospitality and protection

to strangers, however

violently they might come.

You can read the list of names given to the storms of 2013-14, including Xenia, the most recent (I think).