I haven’t written much poetry this month. Novembers are reactionary for me, times
for assessing what has happened in national
elections, and what citizens need to do next to
remain engaged, and hold those elected accountable. In Washington, and in many other states, the
state legislative session is coming up in January. I’ve just finished a proposal about Ranked Choice
Voting and sent it out to state legislators for consideration.
November is also a time for gratitude, but sometimes
tinged with sadness. As we consider that
for which we are thankful, we often think of family, but that also brings
guilt, misgivings, loneliness to the surface. And here in the Pacific NorthWet, that is accompanied by almost daily daylong rain.
In other words, it creates a perfect storm for imagining poetry, but bad
conditions for actually creating it. Born
of the impetus of remembering to
post after 3 weeks, here is something new.
Treasure Wreath
There is a wreath
upon the door
wrought of hop vines
wound in a circle
a harvest within its tangles.
Upon it
are treasures gathered
by my then-young children:
locust pods, pine cones
acorns and ash berries.
The wreath was born
in the autumn
of my first year
living a plane ticket’s
distance from them.
Each item carefully set
its circumstances
lovingly recalled
distance rued
absence aching.
Each year I visit them,
I gather ash berries
from their front yard
and embellish the wreath
with new memories.
