We’re beyond the bitter cold and back into a nice dampness for this time of year. And it’s official, the days are getting longer once again. I know it’s a long slow turning back toward light, but the upward swing of it brings a nice relief. River is sitting up better and better by himself and loving solid foods. He is starting to understand certain interactions as games we play and I find myself smiling constantly in his presence.

The last couple weeks we’re filled with finishing up the quarter, holiday parties, Christmas gift-making and music. My brother Thom is home from his first semester of college and he looks great. It’s strange though—with all that has been going on, I find myself with little to say. I’ve really enjoyed this space, especially for the challenge to say something coherently and, hopefully, something worth hearing.

Stay tuned for some variations on classic holiday tunes, how I’m bringing light to the new year and more. Be well everyone!

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It seems too soon to be thinking
about the end of the world
when only 150 years ago, this great idealistic nation
was fighting itself with bayonets
too soon to think the weather might be gone
whether or not we act now, too late
too soon for the trees to die,
for the glaciers to melt,
for the polar bear to bow upon his prayer rug
of ice and go under
after such a brief century
of ease and bounty for a few people
too many, too few, too many
such a brief time in Macy’s and the Cinema Paradiso,
such a brief ride in the Cadillac around the block,
too late, too soon for the water to be gone,
for the rivers to collapse before the sea,
for the fish to fly from the ocean,
after we only just arrived,
after slavery just ended, too late,
too soon for it to begin again
on the other side of oceans,
after just a few years feeling free
to move about the cabin
at 31,000 feet, a few days
with the lights left on in the kitchen,
after the first Black and White photograph just appeared
after our image emerged, emblazoned
on the wall, in the magazine,
after we saw ourselves from space,
like a tribesman handed a mirror,
like a Christian handed a mirror, too late,
too soon for the stars to vanish
after we just saw ourselves appear
on the outskirts of an endless night,
after the long march, after the frenzy and scramble
up out of the dust and plankton, too late
too soon, too late
to turn back upon ourselves, spinning in space,
in our lit corridors of knowledge,
our intricate matrices of speech,
our global city of ceaseless arrival,
our blue-green wonder, too late, too soon,
to say good-bye.

—Sam Taylor

(first appeared in Cincinnati Review; reprinted by Poetry Daily)

Damn. It’s cold outside. Seattle has had an unusual cloudless-blue-sky streak this past week, which has kept everything crisp. It’s been in the mid twenties, which may not be cold by Midwest standards, but by baby standards it’s a bit extreme.

On Sunday we bundled River extra good for one of our favorite hikes. Only a small section of face—red cheeks, red nose and little glazed eyes—were showing. We saw a mountain goat munching at the edge of a fern-laced cliff deep in an old growth ravine. I waddled bow-legged up and over rocks as River’s long legs now block my own. It was gorgeous and good to be out, but up top with an extra cold wind and River’s empty stomach, he lost it. We fed him quick-like and bounded out of there for fear of ruining the hike for whomever else was in proximity.

I could imagine folks wondering, “what animal is that?” while River screeched and warbled on. It took a bit of convincing, but I got the boy to sleep. Back at the car we were shocked to find River’s feet and hands white and icy cold—and the deep guilt of bad-parenthood set in.

Yesterday, I tried even more extreme bundling—hands and feet double socked before the thick fleece one-sy—but I only made it around the block before deciding I couldn’t handle another bout of guilt if he was cold again.

So we’re staying inside for the time being—the house cozy-warm, coupled with all the accoutrements necessary this time of year: hot drinks topped with whipped cream, christmas music and, of course, cheer.

Yesterday met with some success at Children’s Hospital. I was able to “trick” a quiet young man into writing with me for an hour. During my previous session a couple weeks earlier he had turned down my offers saying, “I’m not a writer type.” I wasn’t convinced, but gave him his space and went on to work with someone else.

During my prep this past week I remembered that he had been watching The Fast & the Furious and guessed that might be my way in. I even wrote a start to an ode to the movie in hopes I might hook him.

He remained a bit resistant, but I started right off by asking him why he liked the movie. He sat up a little. Began speaking above a whisper. And soon the details were rolling out. I kept him going and, reluctantly, a few lines spilled out. He’d tell me about one of the cars he loved and then I’d draw out a detail. Before he kicked me out for the day we had 3/4 of a poem draft and he agreed I could come back next week.

I needed a day like yesterday—the small success—to spur me on. I know this role will continue to evolve and be full of challenges, but to have done one thing well gives me reason to work harder.

‡‡‡

Last night’s reading was a great cap to the day. I met several of the other Writer’s-in-Residence and heard a great variety of wonderful work. It was fun to read among them and be represented by my poems so immediately. It doesn’t happen that way too often (at least in person) and the results were nice.

‡‡‡

River’s nap is almost up and a walk is on the horizon. Cheers.

Tonight I’ll be reading at the Richard Hugo House here in Seattle. I have seven minutes to read some poems with some chatter disbursed among them. This is a new audience—people with no familiarity with my work. So what do I read? I have the straightforward narrative, the spare lyric, the mythic, work about art, family, loss, adventure, and the list goes on. I won’t be able to do it all—and too much variety probably won’t do any of the pieces justice.

If you were to walk into my living room right now and watch River for seven minutes, what would you see? He might be laughing the whole time, kicking his legs, shoving nearly his whole hand into his mouth. Or, he might be quiet and focused with all the effort it takes to use two hands in a coordinated move to grab something and put it in his mouth. He might not acknowledge you for seven minutes. You might also walk in to his frantic jerking, back-arching, moves, half-cry to a full yell, trying to get what he wants, which may be many guesses away.

You could leave and have one notion of the boy, think, “what a sweet kid,” or “man, I’m glad I’m outta there.” I’m up for the same reactions tonight.

What face to wear. How to smile. How to entertain, delight, surprise, wow.

People always have some candy-coated holiday message about the real gift being time with family or good holiday cheer or some slick lie about how it’s the thought that counts. Folks, I once believed these slogans to be true, but I also believed that a fat man in a red coat slid down my chimney, ate cookies and milk, and tossed a couple presents under the tree before scooching back up the soot shoot into the night. What I’m trying to say isn’t that different from all those adds on TV—the ones that twinkle on Thanksgiving day, trying to remind you how to remain important to the people in your life: you buy them things.

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I’ve got some things. Book-things. They wrap easily and last for years! You could even give the same book to a bunch of different people and they would never know. They could even be signed-by-the-author books. I’m only going to do this once (this year). My chapbooks—Two Sides of the Same Thing and The Smallest Working Pieces—make great gifts.

Buy them online (links above) or send me a note and I can pass on signed copies, perhaps with a bonus audio recording of some of the poems.

(VOICE OVER) Prices you can’t beat! Poetry is the new flat screen TV. Move over video games! Who wants a new car? Not me! Books for everyone! (Laughter, holiday music, everything overly decked out in red and green, glittering, too-pretty people with white white teeth in suburban homes where it seems to be snowing out the window, excess wrapping paper, happy children and puppies with bows for collars—FADE OUT).