Small blue bottle on a shelf in the kitchen
holds one grape hyacinth
I plucked from a neighbor’s lawn.
Each day I watch the tiny thing die.
This is what I do when I come to the sink.
This is my document of observation.
First the little purple poufs at the bottom fade slightly
then slowly collapse like balloons running out of air
at an excruciating, slow pace.
I can almost hear the air whistling out
a miniscule breath, imperceptible.

The process moves up the stem
row by row of inedible miniature grapes:
the fading color
indigo to pale periwinkle
invisible pinprick that makes no pop but lets out the air
and withering carries on
until the lowermost grapes become raisins
so tight you think they cannot curl into themselves
even a tiny bit more but they do
the whole while an inaudible wheeze–
Exhale.
This gradual dying.

Exercise in Draining

I am training
to squeeze (absorb?)
information
from where it
is plenty
or scarce.

Sometimes it
will build up
so that I
almost burst
and I would
for certain
if you caught
me off guard.

So I get
information,
I hold it,
and then learn
to drain it
properly.

What do you do when it feels like there’s too much information coming at you?

A plain looking thing
fat disk
of oil and lye
forced to sit and cure

becoming
something permanent
it may not have chosen
for itself

but holding it
between my palms
feels right
subtle thing

under warm water
bumpy rotation
awkward lather
it becomes ethereal.

by Brooke

by Brooke

Moving from Southern CA to New England is like moving from a virtually weatherless bubble to the real world. So I think about weather constantly. And maybe everyone else here does too, but I’m not used to thinking about weather constantly. So it feels like an obsession to me. And when I obsess about things, I tend to write poems about them.

Winter Weather Poem

It is winter
I wear hat, coat, boots everywhere
when it snows I am amazed
when it rains I am amazed
if anything falls from the sky

I am amazed
as I explain to my son why it happens
and the whole time I think is this really what happens and why?
I keep thinking this as I explain the cold of winter
the sun and its distance
the tilt of the planet

And I am amazed
as we wheel across space
on a giant sphere orbiting a gianter sphere
and my brain gets lost in the hugeness
and so I try to think small
coat, hat, boots
as we walk the block to school

by Brooke

Tree fixation

I am doing research.
It involves fidgeting with a camera
and sometimes a pencil.
Also, it requires strict observance
of any and all surroundings.

But I must be willing to do some
mind wandering embroidery,
some imagining where I might push the needle
with black thread or gray on linen, stitch by
stitch the shape
of the trees
themselves
without
these
paternal
leaves.

(from my postcard poems)

While this may sound like I can do without the leaves, I must emphasize that I am as fixated on leaves as I am on trees. Both are one thing and then they are separate things. To me, the changes in trees throughout the seasons will never be anything but fascinating and joyful, and fall-to-winter is one of those stages that I am appreciating now. A few of my tree photos are up on flickr (don’t expect awesome, mostly these are my reference photos ). So, what have you recently been compelled to recreate in some form (writing, song, images, sculpture, stories, etc.) or another?

p.s. Also, please feel free to give feedback on my poem. I am always open to revision. Does it seem like there is something missing?