Sarah Dickenson Snyder

Maybe-Gods

The invisible in all directions—
witnessed with songs of wind & ripple.
& is that hummingbird also a god
at my window or the floating dock
in the pond, the one that edged closer
& closer as I sat in the grass reading,
lured into another world,
the diving stone warmed with the sun
& the cool pockets of the water?
How I say, Here, here aloud to tether myself
to breath. Sometimes all the years blur
into tiny moments of clarity, one life a box
of photographs, heavy with glossy rectangles
but containable, put-away-able until
I see that steep trail and remember
holding onto the back of an elephant,
or the baby gorilla, reaching a leathery finger
toward my shoe, its caramel eyes,
or the brocade dress I wore to prom
& thought I looked like Juliet,
or the poems I recite inside
when I can’t sleep at night,
the words, open-winged,
gliding me into darkness.

Autumn

~after Diane Seuss

It began today with an unexpected wind,
so cold I wanted a scarf & hat. Our world is tilting away
from our star. Yesterday I cried twice, the first time
listening to a poet read the last poem in her book,
every word her own but my story, too. The one
where I will be calm when it comes. It’s probably why
I volunteer with hospice patients, a readiness starting.
Maybe I will be aware & say, Oh, so this is the end.
The last word Steve Jobs said was, Wow & how the poet
imagined being kissed, the opposite of Snow White: a kiss
to die with. Oh, to be remembered & wanted so much—
we always try to find a way to touch. I want my children
to say, She loved us. I want to be the best mother, not the best person.
I want to have been a cup of light. A small, forever sun.

Sarah Dickenson Snyder: I taught English for many years; now I write and volunteer for hospice care. I live in Vermont, carve in stone, and ride my bike. Travel opens my eyes.