I took us to places
where it was
difficult to hear each other
over the wind,
over the waves.
I took us to places where it was
difficult to see each other,
hands wiping
the hair and the mist
from our faces.

I read a review of one place
so close to the shore that the
“waves were too loud
for conversation.”

Take us
to that place.
Where we can’t speak
without being
by the weather.
Where we can’t speak
of anything more
than what we gather at our feet –
agates and abandoned shells
of moon snails,
small stones with faces.
Line them up along a crooked
piece of driftwood.

Then walk out along the shore,
to scan the water for creatures,
pointing to the faintest clearing
in the clouds,
over the the Olympics.

~ Megan M. Codera


Morning Light

Dark blue between
the shadows of the trees
and I still have time
to get out there
before the day comes
barreling in.
Wish I could drop this
digital dependency
like we do
when we are camping,
or visiting friends on the farm.
A fine poet said,
You live by the light you find.
And why not?
Wake with the light
and brew coffee
in the dim kitchen.
Go outside and do
whatever needs to be done.  
Discover the things
underneath the bushes,
take a different trail.
Get a little lost.
And then follow
the fading light home.
Start dinner and let it simmer
while you take your pole
down to the river
to watch the sun trying
something different
with the clouds.
On the way back up to the house,
as you put away the chickens
an owl flies up over the rooftop
and lands in the tallest ponderosa pine.

~ Megan M. Codera


The main trails are
marked with wide paths
of pine needles
and warnings
on trespassing.
Most just walk
along the road here.
But there are other trails
you might miss,
if you weren’t looking for them.
Thin trails, where the greens
continue to grow knee-high,
salal and ferns.
Fallen branches
tangle with the arch
of younger alder trees
and dogwood.
There’s a tunnel,
the shadow of a deer
with its long legs through the brush
and head easing under the arch.
If I took one of those trails,
climbing through the brush
and the fallen branches,
ducking at the arches,
where would I find you?
Which one of us would turn around first?

~ Megan M. Codera

Getting Out

I remember all the rooms
where we stayed
in Mexico,
but I don’t remember
in any of them.
They were just a place
to leave our things.
In Oaxaca, with the tall doors and thin walls,
I fought a fever on thin sheets,
but still made it to the market
and a show in a crumbling theater.
In Taxco, we had a courtyard on the roof,
just outside of our room with high ceilings
and no glass panes on the high windows.
We got pizza and beer that first night
while the town erupted with a festival in the streets
for El Dia de la Madre.
And in the hostel in Mexico City,
two sets of bunk beds crammed in the corners
of a room at the end of the hall
and you tried to teach me to Salsa
on the dirty linoleum floor.
It is strange to say we stayed in those rooms,
in those places so far from our cities and our lives.
The things we found could never have been
seen in those rooms.
We had to open the tall doors
and walk the narrow, crooked streets.

~ Megan M. Codera

All We Do Not Know

I have with me
all that I do not know
I have lost none of it
 – W.S. Merwin
    From “The Nomad Flute”

The sea of things
we do not know
churns slowly
in each of us.
Some may try
to ease the weight
by sharing
all they know
with anyone they know.
Some devour field guides
and listen to NPR
so they can sound
as if they know.
And then some
take sips
of only the things
of interest,
sharing bits
when it fits.
But there is no way
to ever lose
this bag
of things we do not know.
No need to analyze it,
empty it,
or ignore it.
Nothing we name
will ever be
just that.
Not even the rain.

~ Megan M. Codera

*NaPoWriMo poem prompt for Day 25: take a line from a poem to inspire a new poem.