Pops; A Poem

This weekend, I sing with my Chorus in a big Pops concert in the park. My kids are in the chorus too -- as an alto, I stand high and in the back so I can peer down and see the tops of their heads as they are singing, and I am filled with a rush of warmth, and so much happiness that tears nearly spill out of my eyes.

I can't say the Chorus, a big dysfunctional family, saved me at a time when I needed saving, because it's trite, and also an overstatement. I wasn't saved. I didn't need saving. But I needed and got support at times when I felt like my legs were buckling underneath me, and that's all a girl could really hope for, don't you think?

After Pops is over, there is the sense of loss until the fall when we start up again.

This is old, but relevant:

I am like a geyser –
love dripping from my fingertips;
then suddenly without warning
exploding upwards and showering down
upon all around me.
The scent is pervasive in my presence,
offensive to some,
not rain, not summer, not green,
but love pouring out unchecked
like an open fire hydrant
on a day when the air shimmers with heat.
And I worry, as you might imagine,
that if it keeps up at this rate
I will run out of love as
I once frivolously frittered away my cache
of hope.

7/17/04