by Ilene Millman
In Praise of Random Things,
June 21st
Praise for the light—its certainty, the way it fractures
into geometric patterns I see tracing
on the sidewalk, the way it clings to the wings of birds
Praise for Zoom—the way the early morning visit
with my Israeli grandson sketches missing pieces in my family portrait
like stick figures trying their best to become real.
For the waffle sandwich—gobs of blueberries and strawberries
stuffed between two Belgians
and topped with more whipped cream than the Himalayas have snow
For the house wren riot—and the way the ruby-throated packet of
hyper-caffeinated energy sipped my sugar syrup for 6 nanoseconds
before flitting away
Blessing for little blonde boy—holding his nylon shorts away
from his sides like a blue sail lifting in the wind,
running and laughing the whole way down my block
Rise up in praise for the Amazon rep— who did not disconnect me,
disrespect me, disapprove
or disappoint me
Praise for Wordle— in two moves
For chord progressions—the skeletons of songs rattling their
twelve-bar bluesy bones in my Air Pods,
accompaniment for my walking pulse
And the lone doe—the way she tiptoes in the whisper music
of grass just at dusk and delicately nibbles
my neighbor’s fallen fruit instead of my flowers and shrubs
Praise for your good night kiss—4 hugs in held suspension, books
on my night table, the entirely of them, bread dough that did not fail
to rise, 60 ounces of water, indoor plumbing
This good hair day— dark chocolate and coffee, coffee and
dark chocolate, for the completely possible poem,
the smile on my friend’s face when we met for lunch
For the chipmunk so quick I did not run it over— and the light,
the way the lemon bash of it
drops at day’s end like a scene change in the theater
For My Love on his 80th Birthday
Let us not repeat the lies
told by numbers,
make jokes about forgetting words
or say if our faces slip
in the fogged bathroom mirror
if we can touch our toes quick
and supple like a robin landing.
Let us not make mention
of how things have come untied
like shoelaces
or what we used to be good at
and now are no good at all.
Let us not rehash
how quickly noon became night
or what’s whispered to us at 2 AM:
what we’ve done and left
undone, mortal boundaries
or the possible natures of time
Instead, let’s do this:
start by saying aloud one moment
larger now: like how it is when we glide
in on our bikes, the beautiful miles
traveled yet again
or the other day,
walking in the Gardens
and spotting the Twilight Zone roses
pulsing off their stems,
fruity purple growing
louder and louder
or just now
when I whispered
I’ll always love you
three times in a row,
not the words meandered and multiplied
but the low untranslatable song
of things folded between us
and our laughter
like the sound of many rivers.