What Repeats: a poem

Home

is what repeats--

same door

same keys

dropping into the same

blue dish,

same fingers finding

light switches

in the dark.

Same sounds out the window, same

portion of horizon--

I repeat.

Me & my husband

& son.

We repeat.

Suitcases &

t-shirts (two)

shorts & pants

notebooks &

bedtime lullabies.

These are the constants now--

different kitchens

hallways

night lights

sunrises;

new dishes & spoons

& rules for living--

clean up here,

relax there.

Bring your own groceries;

eat grandma’s hot dish.

What’s the lesson?

If I remain steady now,

sane & on course

with every little inlet,

every reef of coral

forcing a tack

& constant vigilance;

If I am learning

to captain by feel,

keep my eyes on the stars

who are constant travelers, too

can’t I go anywhere?

Do anything?

Be

anyone?--

In all our travels

I return to my inner course,

my own Golden Compass,

having faith in it

because it speaks to me,

truer every time

I listen well.

--Take a depth charge!--

The voices call out

from their posts in the darkness.

Wind propels us,

the breath of God.

Angels, then--

is that who climbs the rigging,

helps mend the sails?

Bails water out beside me

down below?

As good as.

The rope comes up,

silent & slick

on its oiled pulley--

the reading confirms it,

what the map

the compass

the stars

have all been telling me:

I am not alone.

The ship sails on

with me at the helm

when the watch is mine,

but also when I sleep--

Who steers it then?

Who do I trust

never seeing their faces?

Wind,

Waves, yes,

but even more--

Friends.

Sail on,

sail on--

home repeats,

tomorrow waits.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux; 23/6/11

I'm thinking a lot about what "home" means during this nomadic couple of months before we move to India. Read more on our family blog.

Bean Field: a poem

Bean Field

The Sun looks down with

equal interest

on woods & prairie,

Minnesota & India, on

my childhood

my future, on

Thoreau’s bean fields.

Give up--he says--

not only the first fruits

but the last; Trust

as the woods do

to the squirrel; Rejoice

in the harvest of seeds

for the birds

though your own granary

stands empty.

But what shall I do as I wait?

Make the earth say ‘beans’

instead of ‘grass’--

again I must ask

What is my grass?

Which are my beans?

I stand, now,

with hoe in hand

not knowing

which end is up or

which plant be friend

or enemy.

What am I sowing here? Or

what am I meant to tend,

Seeds having been long sown,

broken though their small husks &

reaching green &

unhesitant into the light?

My child

of course. But

he is so old!

16 months &

I think

he doesn’t need me.

Not truly for sleep or milk

he can get both food & rest

from another.

I am as an old farmer

watching the big machines

do the work that once was mine,

shared with horse &

simple plow taking

many days &

leaving me tired

& satisfied.

What now?

Progress leaves me behind

not wanting

the noisy diesel but

feeling ashamed

of my patched dungarees.

Beans, beans--

I seem to have traded them

for a cow,

traded house & home

& mother

to a strange old man

who knew my name,

who made me believe.

Now they have grown up!

Towering above me,

these bean-dreams

that seemed so

innocent & small!

They sway

carrying scents of curry,

sounds of strange music,

clinks of gold--

do I dare?

This is my harvest--

a ladder into the sky,

a green & verdant journey

to another world.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux

20 June 2011