Today I kept you
and you cried because it’s new
so we went outside
to see all the trees
you touched the green leaves sweetly
with your baby hand
and you looked up high
at the pines rattling with song
cicadas, at last
first time this season
oh how I love their comfort
oh how I love you
joy
It is the season
of newness
of flowering
of fresh color
of cloudless sky
so blue it hurts
it is the season
of grass
of earth
of birth
of birds
of Eastertide hatchlings
leaving nests
to wing their way
through the world
it is the season
of contemplation
of existence
of life
of purpose
of time
not standing still
and therefore being
infinitely
piercingly
precious
Micah contemplates pink sorrel and a piece of pine straw
Maybe it’s me
when I look at you
I see
maybe it’s me
❤
Me at six months and my granddaughter, Micah, at six months.
an epistolary pantoum, to mark the occasion
Dearest Micah:
I write these lines
while you’re sleeping,
first time in my keeping.
I write these lines
having rocked you to sleep,
first time in my keeping,
listening to you breathing.
Having rocked you to sleep,
these moments, ever sweet,
listening to you breathing
—I am complete.
These moments, ever sweet
while you’re sleeping.
I am complete,
dearest Micah.
My precious Micah, 4 mos. 3/7/2022. #FrannaMagic
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Slice of Life Story Challenge every day in the month of March.
To write a pantoum, use this line sequence:
1234 2546 5768 7381
with thanks to Susan Ahlbrand who honored today’s date (2-22-22) by inviting participants to write palindrome poems on Ethical ELA’s Open Write.
Yesterday was a day off for my district. My son brought my little four-month-old granddaughter over for a visit. I wanted to write about these sweet, sweet moments…
Moments with Micah
I would make time stand still
to savor you more
to marvel at the miracle
of your existence
(your dad says
he still can’t believe
you are real).
Every day
you are changing
growing in size
knowing in your eyes
so wonderfully made
rose-satin skin
tiny sweet hands
gripping
my heart.
My heart
gripping
tiny sweet hands
rose-satin skin
so wonderfully made
knowing in your eyes
growing in size—
you are changing
every day.
You are real.
He still can’t believe,
your dad says
of your existence.
To marvel at the miracle
to savor you more
I would make time stand still.
with thanks also to the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge writing community; writers need places to call home.
a tritina, with love – Franna
How you make me smile,
your sweet head adorned with ribbon,
eyes glimmering with light.
Such a celestial interplay of light
across your face when you smile,
recognition just beginning to ribbon.
Gift of my life, tied with ribbon.
I’m dissolved by the light
of this angelic smile.
Your smile, a ribbon of light in my soul.
Micah, three months old
For my newborn granddaughter, Micah
What shall I tell you about the day you were born?
Your Grandpa and I were waiting in the carpool line to pick your big sister up from kindergarten when your dad texted: Micah is here! 9 lbs!
Gratitude flooded our hearts as photos flooded our phones.
We wept at sight of you. Your sister would say “happy cried.”
Looking at your beautiful rosy face, a thousand thoughts fluttered in my mind, like birds descending from the azure sky, landing one by one on soft, moss-covered branches…
I remembered it was supposed to storm that day, and it didn’t; the late October sun shone for all it was worth, illuminating the countryside with brilliant gold, orange, yellow, and scarlet.
I forgot the shadows, worries, and grind of daily life.
I remembered the story of my own birth, told over and over to me by my grandmother: She, Daddy, Granddaddy, and Grannie stood looking at me through the nursery window, Grandma “happy cried,” Daddy said I looked just like Granddaddy.
I forgot to be sad about not going to the hospital to see you on the day you were born due to limited visitors in COVID protocols.
I remembered that I’d be able to come the next day, and that it would suffice.
I forgot there was even a pandemic.
I remembered the joy of your father’s birth, the fierce motherlove which surged in my veins, which surges still, and exponentially now, for you.
I forgot about fearing my own inadequacies.
I remembered to wear Grandma’s locket.
I forgot, until your curious big sister opened it, that your father’s newborn picture was nestled inside.
I remembered the promises of God, that blessings fall on the generations of those who love Him, my precious, precious baby Micah, daughter and granddaughter of pastors: Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commandments (Deuteronomy 7:9, ESV).
I have never forgotten that.
Thankful for the infinite grace of God. Love you always, Micah. – Franna
********
with thanks to Denise Krebs for hosting November’s Spiritual Journey Thursday group, with a focus on gratitude.
and also to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge.
I am deeply grateful for you all.
On the Ethical ELA Open Write for Educators today, Mo Daley invites poets to try the decima. Originating in Spain, the form is comprised of ten-line stanzas, eight syllables each, with the rhyme scheme ABBAACCDDC.
These poems typically go on for forty stanzas. I’ve managed only one!
Here’s my decima debut, as well as far more important debut…
First Poem for My Granddaughter, Micah (Whose Name Means “Who is Like God?”)
But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. —Matthew 6:33
Three things he said he’d never do:
marry, have a child, start preaching
like his dad, all the while reaching
out for what is solid and true.
God brought your mother. And now you,
Beloved One, coming this fall.
Blessing and fruition of all
my boy always longed for, despite
his fears. Now with tears of delight
he embraces his Father-call.
Franna loves you so much already, Baby Girl.
It looks like a glass teardrop there in my hands. I tip it this way and that, watching the tiny white pieces inside floating up and down in the clear liquid, catching the light and glowing with bits of colored fire. I’ve never seen anything so magical.
“Grannie, what IS this?” I breathe. I can see it’s a necklace. It has a little cap of silver leaves and a silver chain.
She understands. “A floating opal,” she replies, rummaging through her jewelry box.
I can’t look at anything else.
I wonder about the liquid. Is it water? From where? A magic spring bubbling up in a wizard’s garden? What if it isn’t water but tears cried by an enchanted princess and collected in the teardrop-shaped globe as a powerful talisman? Why is the opal in little pieces and how can there be such fiery red, blue, and green in its luminescent whiteness? Colored fire burning in water…is there a spell on this floating opal? What does it MEAN?
I don’t even realize how spellbound I am, or how long I would sit staring at this otherworldly object, until Grannie speaks, breaking the hypnosis:
“You can keep it, if you want.”
*******
I’ve loved opals ever since. Their beauty, their symbolism, their lore. They’re said to be stones of emotion, freedom, and independence; that certainly sounds like my Grannie, who had a fiery streak herself. It sounds like what she may have wished for me. Opals also have a mixed-bag reputation of misfortune and hope, and once it was believed that an opal wrapped in a bay leaf would render a person invisible; it was accordingly dubbed patronus furum, “patron of thieves,” says the International Gem Society.
Come to think of it, I never did ask Grannie how she came by this floating opal…not that she would have taken it. Surely not. But as freely as she gave it, I wonder: Might it have belonged to my Papa G’s first wife who died years before? A floating opal necklace like this dates to the 1940s…
No matter, really, as was it my grandmother’s to give thirty-something years later, and I was the receiver.
Recently I stumbled upon this story about opals I’d never heard before One more mesmerizing, mysterious thing… courtesy of the International Gem Society:
In a chapter of Sir Walter Scott’s 1829 gothic novel, Anne of Geierstein, we learn the unusual story of the enchanted and mysterious Lady Hermione.
The grandmother of the titular character, she appeared to possess magical powers. At times, she seemed more an indefatigable spirit — an ignis fatuus or will-o’-the-wisp — than human. She always wore in her hair a golden clasp with an opal that “amid the changing lights peculiar to that gem, displayed internally a slight tinge of red like a spark of fire.” This gem seemed to reflect her moods, showing “a twinkling and flashing gleam which seemed to be emitted by the gem itself” whenever she became animated or agitated, “as if it sympathized with the wearer’s emotions.”
On the day of her daughter’s christening, drops of holy water struck her opal, which “shot out a brilliant spark like a falling star, and became the instant afterwards lightless and colorless as a common pebble.” Hermione then collapsed. Two hours later, all that remained of her was a handful of gray ashes.
So. A grandmother, a granddaughter… named Anne.
Let me just say that Ann is my middle name.
I will not even address the name Hermione in this legend; I will just let Harry Potter fans savor that on a whole ‘nother level with me.
And let me also say that somehow, in the passing of the years, Grannie’s floating opal got misplaced. When one of my babies snapped the chain long ago, I put the teardrop pendant somewhere for safekeeping. I finally found it in a little heart-shaped velvet case inside a larger jewelry box.
The globe had separated from the silver-leaf cap. The liquid had dried up. All that remained were the little pieces of broken opal.
Tears welled in my eyes; I couldn’t help wondering if the opal stopped floating when my Grannie died.
But, if I ever write a fantasy someday, you can be sure a floating opal will play a significant role.
*******
Photo: Vintage floating opal necklace on Etsy.
Looks exactly like Grannie’s when I first saw it.
The annual Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers is underway, meaning that I am posting every day in the month of March. This marks my fifth consecutive year and I’m experimenting with an abecedarian approach: On Day 15, I am writing around a word beginning with letter o.
lit bits and pieces 