for my sister

you, with your hair and your heels and
the way you laugh with all your teeth,
may soon discover that most of us
(for i am one of them now, i am
on the other side, looking back)
have a kind of sympathy for youth,
which directs our gazes first and
always to those things that are most
positive and most endearing.
i hope you do. i hope you find
that your most slap-dash efforts
are met with praise and warmth,
your best efforts met with joy.
one day the shine may wear thin:
may it not be so with you,
or if it must be, may the wealth
of these early years carry you
through any lean months, any
poverty of self that may befall you.
may all the good things now unfolding
bear you forward on a tide of foam
and crushed petals. fragrant. glowing.
may the forest of men in dark suits
who sit frowning by the city gates
find themselves rising to applaud you.
may the ones you love find themselves
often at your door, find you often at theirs.
may all of us who wish you well find
frequent ways to celebrate those parts
of you we always knew to be true.
these things have just begun.
congratulations! and hurrah!
and love, and love, and love.

holiday

nuts and oranges,
coffee in the cold predawn,
haste the homing heart.

and there you are with all your slop.

the biggest surprises happen by design.
plans, proposals, drafts, blueprints:
so much wishing, such a ginning up
of enthusiasm in an effort to overwhelm
the cynical chatter of soul and zeitgeist.
no one really expects best-laid plans
to bear much of anything. not anymore.
modern society expects each one of us
to fail, a melancholy streak that loves a bit
of predicted disappointment, gloom and doom.
that’s what it was like for you, wasn’t it?
but then gourds quietly emerged in the desert,
and in the barren land back-breaking work
took root: orchards freighted with blossoms,
scent, and crawling bees, furrowed earth
misted with greens: silver at first, then
grassy and wild, finally dark and gently folding,
glossy in the sun, seeming aged and wise.
the timeline of the land turning from innocence
towards a more mature virility, slowly confident.
all at once despite all doubt and dryness
a slick executive chef fell in love with the herbs,
another with your preserves and yet another
with the tomatoes. invitations to compete
trickled in, followed by ribbons and a fuss
most of us would rather have avoided altogether.
press, lauds, and cooking magazine interviews
and there you are with all your slop,
oddly ill at ease with the attention,
awkward and stiff in the limelight.
to hear you talk nine months ago,
this would be the last hurrah. take off
your old pessimism. take a breath. take off
your shoes and walk about. surprise, surprise.