Why I Don’t Write About George Floyd
by Toi Derricotte – 1941-
Because there is too much to say
Because I have nothing to say
Because I don’t know what to say
Because everything has been said
Because it hurts too much to say
What can I say what can I say
Something is stuck in my throat
Something is stuck like an apple
Something is stuck like a knife
Something is stuffed like a foot
Something is stuffed like a body
It’s cherry picking time! It is a short season in my Dad’s backyard coming on the heels of the 4th of the July every year. No one associates cherries with Minnesota winters as they are too cold for sweet cherries. But a pie cherry tree situated in the right spot where it gains a little protection from the side of a house can live around 20 years and produce an abundance of tart, wonderfully cherry, pie cherries, despite our harsh winters. Pie cherries are smaller, little jewels hanging on the tree. My sister and I love the tradition of coming over and picking with my father. My father’s zeal to try and harvest every one isn’t like it used to be, but its a lovely July tradition to climb a short ladder and pick and pick and pick in the same spot and hardly seem to make a dent in the bounty of fruit hanging before your eyes. It is particularly satisfying this year, picking cherries is a reminder of the importance of the simple traditions in our lives that give them context and enjoyment. My father is on the 3rd cherry tree in his current yard. A reminder that life is short. It is a reminder to honor beauty and the circle of life that sustains us. It is a reminder of how fortunate I am.
In the past six weeks I have thought a lot about my good fortune and the word privilege. I have written before about how I realize I won the genetic lottery ticket of all time by growing up white, middle class, in the 1960’s suburban America. I also agree with Derricotte’s poem above, I am not sure I am the right person nor do I have the words to add to the discussion. So what should be my participation in change? I can add to the discussion by listening, learning, absorbing, reflecting. I can let the discussion lead me to ways that I can be better. And maybe if I commit to change and others do too, we can do better as a society and as a community. Despite the omnipresent reminders in the burned buildings of our failure in my community, cherry picking is a reminder that there is hope. There is still an ancient beauty that is beyond me, that surrounds me, that came before me and will last after I am gone. I can appreciate it, I can savor it, I can honor it and taste its goodness with a grateful and regenerative tongue. Time to make cherry jam this evening!
Cherry Blossoms
by Toi Derricotte
I went down to
mingle my breath
with the breath
of the cherry blossoms.
There were photographers:
Mothers arranging their
children against
gnarled old trees;
a couple, hugging,
asks a passerby
to snap them
like that,
so that their love
will always be caught
between two friendships:
ours & the friendship
of the cherry trees.
Oh Cherry,
why can’t my poems
be as beautiful?
A young woman in a fur-trimmed
coat sets a card table
with linens, candles,
a picnic basket & wine.
A father tips
a boy’s wheelchair back
so he can gaze
up at a branched
heaven.
. . All around us
the blossoms
flurry down
whispering,
. . Be patient
you have an ancient beauty.
. . Be patient,
. . you have an ancient beauty.
Fourteen Lines 