To Mom

My mother, Helen, died over two weeks ago. And, by the time this entry posts, it will be my birthday, my first birthday without her. I began sitting with Ross Gay’s poetry a few days ago, and as my cycling season begins–a little late this year–I will begin it with this poem in my pocket. Mom encouraged me to pay attention, to the birds flying and lighting on a limb, to the water as it ripples on a lake, to the leaves as they wiggle in the wind. I am paying attention, Mom, to all of it and more.

Sorrow Is Not My Name

BY ROSS GAY

—after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No

matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.

There is a time for everything. Look,

just this morning a vulture

nodded his red, grizzled head at me,

and I looked at him, admiring

the sickle of his beak.

Then the wind kicked up, and,

after arranging that good suit of feathers

he up and took off.

Just like that. And to boot,

there are, on this planet alone, something like two

million naturally occurring sweet things,

some with names so generous as to kick

the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,

stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks

at the market. Think of that. The long night,

the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me

on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.

But look; my niece is running through a field

calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel

and at the end of my block is a basketball court.

I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.

      —for Walter Aikens