Kirk Lawson

​sense memory
 
Waking without you, the dog and I head out for her morning walk. I squeeze the phone so tightly my ring finger bruises. Waiting, for the call about your surgery. Returning, still no word. I enter our bedroom and open your closet doors. Pants, shorts, shirts--stacked neatly by garment type and colour—confront me.
 
precision folds
your attention to detail
pieces of you
 
I cover my face with your pajama bottoms, inhale your light cedar scent, traces of our streamside sauna just one week ago. 
 
Not knowing.
 
unleashed floods
                    waters rage
holding onto you
 
**

sheer beauty 
 
rough and ready
clarity of the Sky Lakes
we swim with frogs
 
Acquiring our property upstate in 1990 secures our future salvation. Over time we adorn the house with classic Adirondack features to create our own “great camp.” We hike from it along nature’s trails, top the ridge, wind down to the Saunderskill stream and end up at our sauna.   
 
a fork in the birch
deer and wild turkey 
our nosy neighbours
 
I study you over time as you examine nature. Your fascination dates back to childhood when your oldest brother, high school science teacher and mycologist, lures you into the world of fungi and slime molds.  Our moist forested floor sends you back to an exciting, simpler time.
 
rich decay
your outdoor experiment
the cycle of life 
 
With your accident—and with the COVID-19 pandemic brewing around us—images of woodlands become an even more sustaining reserve. 
 
to stand with trees
mychorrizal networks
and glacial scratches
 
**

honour the front line 
 
Walks to the hospital offer miles of mindful meditation. Time to reflect on our many years together. As I journey across town in an unfolding pandemic horror film, I pass through the theatre district, where we have together been entertained by live performance. 
 
the drama of contagion
and marquees extinguished
Broadway shut tight
 
Each time I pass the entrance of the hospital, my eyes land on powerful multi-colored sentiments. Chalked on sidewalks by fans of healthcare workers, simple truths and uplifting calls to action:
​ 
                                              behind each dark cloud
                                           the sun waiting to break free
 
This intentional community of hope raises my spirits.
 
                                        if you don’t see light, be light
 
At 7 pm each evening, NYC steps outside onto sidewalks, balconies, and terraces to herald healthcare workers who show up, take care of the ill and put themselves at risk. As New Yorkers clang pots, clap and shout, I think of you. My husband-doctor, now intensive care patient.
 
a call to heal 
din of metal colanders
ad-hoc orchestra
 
**
 
Keeping Score
 
Has it all come down to this? After a lifetime of quantifying success against an arbitrary goal. To achieve, whatever the cost. A competitive nature, I prefer victory to failure.
 
Retired and sixty-six, I see my oncologist monthly. Just when I’d hoped to be free from success by someone else’s calculation, I’m checking for lab results in my electronic medical record to forecast the future. 
 
Yesterday I learn that my numbers are climbing up.
 
heads or tails 
win, lose or draw
the taste of sky
 
Today we enjoy a leisurely lunch at a trattoria on Restaurant Row in New York. Then stroll to our Broadway Matinee through a frenetic Times Square. A friend eagerly asks the question, one that feels more like an indictment.
 
Everything good with your cancer? 
 
I shut down.
 
Don’t want to talk about it.
 
skimming stones
bounce across the surface
then sink
 
Even at this point in life, I am still not sure what counts.  In spite of illness, I refuse to be defined by it. I remind myself often that my husband and I have built a wonderful life together.
 
touched by rain drops
and mountain laurel blossoms
moss shifts underfoot
 
**
 
This poem was first published in Pulse Voices.

**

I recount, we re-live
 
We acquire our upstate woodland property in 1990. As we meander with abandon through the forest, we grow through shared wonder. Discover local flora and fauna, as if walking through the lens of Ansel Adams. Our shoulders brush wispy white northern pines while moss-capped rocks point the way. Lulled by the percussive timpani of a woodpecker’s swift beat on a felled oak, we are cleansed by sounds of the Saunderskill streambed. Waters dance around rocks, down granite chutes and beckon us onwards. And often inwards.
 
We lose sight of each other. I turn to find you, on hands and knees, examining slime molds. Dangling a red newt, as if to lower its tail into your wide-open grin, eyeballs crossing. Or sniffing the wintergreen leaf you’ve just torn in two, making me a scented offering. You study a pink and chartreuse jack-in-the-pulpit and its champagne-flute contours. 
 
As years pass, we grow wiser and older. Steep climbs, leaps and deep dives become careful steps along the path and toes into the water. Then your mountain bike accident, five years ago. Both of us stopped us in our tracks.
 
glacial scratches
      up and down my spine
a lone eagle soaring
 
Our woods off-limits to you, I lose my bearings. Cannot or will not witness such wonder alone. It’s as though my senses for the cliffs, streambed, trails, wildlife have all been muted. I deny myself pleasure where you have lost feeling. 
 
blinded 
    you urge me 
to wander
 
Until we adopt a dog. Leo and I hike nearly each day. Spry and strong, he leaps and lurches, snapping me into right here, right now. Forces me to attend to branches that might scratch, roots that might trip. 
 
I return with photos and videos to share. Our rediscovered joy.
 
together we find
     our place  
on this earth
 
**
​
passing through
 
Our first day of vacation, we walk through the town to get to the trailhead. Past tiny street-side stores and family-run limoncello laboratori. Next, a thirteenth century paper mill, the first in Italy to produce hand-printed paper. The ascent to Ravello includes more than a kilometre of stone steps. Connected by paths through scented lemon and silvery olive groves. Each view offers Mediterranean cliffs, sea and shade from burning mid-day sun. Just past mid-point, we stop to complain of unexpected fatigue and are passed by a nonna forging up a long flight of stone steps. Carrying three bags of groceries, she offers buongiorno as she speeds by. Later we enjoy a good laugh and a glass wine at a trattoria in Ravello. For the return, a guilt-free taxi. 
 
to trod
civilizations
we two
one step 
at a time
 
The next day we walk down to the hotel’s spiaggia, which involves hundreds of steps winding through the terraced landscape. We pass flower gardens filled with blooming wisteria and oleander until we stumble upon the kitchen’s vegetable garden. Admiring tomatoes, spinaci, beans, lemon trees, our eyes land on the arugula. We pick a stem and seconds later hear “Bah.” A moment after that, “Baaaaaah.” As we proceed, we are greeted by two sturdy goats nestled in the rock, behind a rustic gate. To express our gratitude, we pick a few more leafy morsels, careful to leave enough for the pizza con rucola, mozzarella e prosciutto we intend to order for lunch later that day at the seaside al fresco trattoria. 
 
to roam and forage
                          a la carte
each of us bleating
 
One calm, sunny morning at the port of Amalfi, we rent a boat with captain and cruise la costeria amalfitana. Speeding over Mediterranean seas, the motor’s blades spew and spit up a hearty wake on either side of its sleek hull. Our bodies rise and fall in syncopation as we glide over the choppy surface. We gaze in wonder at the coastline’s uninterrupted cliffs and recall our very own mountainous Shawangunk cliffs surrounding our country home. In both locales, prehistoric rock formed millions of years before us, the result of tectonic shifts. Almost imperceptibly, we become part of the landscape.
 
audacious
     the alchemy of geography
a life at sea
 
Our last day. Never mind its fancy shops, our interest in Capri was mainly the brisk walk from the Marina Grande to its southeastern corner, escaping glitz for beach. And our lunch stop, Trattoria da Luigi. In full view of i Faraglioni, three spurs of rock shooting up out of the sea. Like a massive whale that stands erect just before crashing down. 
 
We descend our final stone pathway to Da Luigi, its own wonder awaiting. A beachside family enterprise going back decades. Seated outdoors, the beach and monolithic rocks just beyond reach, we will always remember Italiani promenading waist high in azure waters and Spaghetti alle Vongole with a glass of Vermentino. 
 
to linger 
in the company of seagulls
over time
 
**
​
Kirk Lawson lives Ulster County, New York, surrounded by the Shawangunk mountains. 
 He enjoys poetry as a creative outlet to enhance meaning in living. Published in Discretionary Love, Months to Years, Thorn and Bloom. Grateful to his husband Jim and dog Leo for all they teach him each day.