Postcard: April 6, 2020
Author Archives: Leslie Schultz
April 5, 2020 Poem “Ecola”
Ecola
for our daughter, on the other coast
Where is the entry point
into this poem?
The trail head is closed
for the foreseeable
which seems not that far, now,
our human future
shrouded in fog.
Fog remains at home, here,
on this point where land
meets sea, where a crescent
of beach curves. Just north,
Tillamook lighthouse still
battens to its rock,
abandoned columbarium;
just south, Haystack Rock
looms picturesque, mute.
I recall our last visit,
four months pregnant with you.
We rented a damp cabin
at Cannon Beach, dim
and stinking of old smoke.
That night, the roar of the surf
called us out. We walked
into the heavy fog, lights
of heaven concealed, even
the lights of the town, rocks,
docks, Sitka spruce all shrouded.
Delicate as deer, we went,
step by step, onto the wet sand,
its shining all we could see
except each other. The tide
was low but we knew
it would turn, that morning
would come. That fog would burn.
Leslie Schultz
April 4, 2020 Poem “Dogwoods”
Dogwoods
for Judy
They are no dream. They are a dream come true.
These twigs, so red against the April snow,
nestle with pussy willows soft and grey.
These two embody harmony on a day
enflamed by public fear and private woe.
Their gentle forms uplift and bring to view
the memory of a friend who came to dine
just last month, who knocked when twilight fell,
who carried in these wands of wood and willow
cradled in her arm, tied up in yellow
paper, newsprint, yellow ribbon. I could tell
they came from her garden, at a time when mine
was frozen, mud-brown, glyph of brittle grief.
I exclaimed, then set them in a square vase,
four-sided, like the creamy bracts that frame
each cluster of tiny golden blooms, too tame,
I think, to call a flower. In any case,
that night, the slender red was not in leaf
but formed a backdrop for the silver show
of fuzzy nubbins shaped like kitten paws.
Today—Ta-da!—a dazzle of bright green
crowns every dogwood twig like a young queen—
Persephone, perhaps, who scorns applause,
yet yearly melts my heart, as well as snow.
Leslie Schultz
Today’s poem sprang from a recent gift, as you see. My friend, Judy, also keeps sled dogs, which had not occurred to me until just now, making the gift of dogwood all the more appropriate. Looking at these images, I am glad that the vase was made by a local artist, the late Charles Halling. I plan to plant these magic wands–pussy willow and dogwood–in my own garden when the time is right, after last night’s snow is no longer even a memory.
April 3, 2020 Poem “Cuz”
Cuz
Mom probably knows a lot,
counsels listening, helping,
staying in tune.
Cuz science is as real
as your feelings or mine,
and like us evolving.
Cuz the little bit
we choose to do
adds up exponentially.
Cuz we don’t always know
the cause or the cure
for sure, but we know
this splendid day
is a chance to be careful
and kind,
to steady the mind,
to smile. To get a clue.
Leslie Schultz
April 2, 2020 Poem “Bistro”
Bistro
Early morning. Dew gathers on each bentwood chair,
on round tabletops near the swept sidewalk.
Insects are beginning to saw minute music.
Their tunes buzz in early urban air,
not yet drowned by the metal whines of traffic.
A striped awning over a glass door. Coffee offerings in chalk
lean on slates near the entrance, work their magic,
entrance us in, as if by chance, and we talk
after silence not so companionable. Not that we bare
our souls, nothing like that. Maybe we just wake
up a little more to each other, to who and what we are,
exhale our nocturnal worrying, refuse miasma and mild panic.
We perk up at the scents of cold milk and rich, dark brew.
We’ll come back for lunch. Maybe the stew? For now, Salut!
Leslie Schultz
