I’ve been making a lot of plans lately. Lesson plans, life plans. Today I’m taking a step back, using poetry to muse about control, spirituality, and the inspiration of the natural world, with a few shots of my Iceland vacation thrown in.
Remember in July,
when we stood still in our hiking boots,
waiting for the geyser to gush?
Even that was a plan you made
and clothes I carefully laid
and bills we carefully paid
so we could dig our heels in the brown ground,
When the earth flaunted its do-as-it-likes
Carefully stepping around wet stones and
“hugging the mountain” when the altitude felt too high
and reaching for a stray horse’s snout on a muted, windy slope,
We breathed in Earth’s overflow
witnessed Her grace
But over a Gull, or lobster soup,
we mused over plans for home,
Meanwhile, glowing chunks of blue-white ice floated idly toward the Atlantic
Aggressive waterfalls thundered down cliffs
the gray Atlantic met with pebbled beaches
And we took pictures, eager to clap
For this jazz.
Surrender came in a flash
when I stripped off my coat and scarf and laid in the moss-grass of a mountain
suddenly remembering that memorial service photo of Carrie’s mom,
basking in the sky on Colorado grass
Before ALS hit.
Today I wonder if I’m a fool
to think that the plans I’m making
bear a contrast, rather than a pale resemblance to
the sprinkling of volcanic ash on a glacier
Perhaps I’ve been duped
by the strangeness of ash on ice
the drama of cascading water
the glow of blue lagoons
Yes, I think I’ve been duped.
I’m “a theatre person”; I should understand
the planning that goes into the artifice.
“Whipped cream on a brick,”
a dance teacher once said,
of a ballerina’s lithe posturing
to look like she does as she likes.
Still, it’s a nice thought,
And one that I think I’ll hold onto,
That when the geyser errupts,
She’s just letting it go,
on a whim.