Perched in the crook
of a maple tree; I saw little girls
with autumn colored hair,
summer pauses and late bedtime
in their voices.
On a bicycle, I was close enough
to notice one head bend toward the other,
the posture of animals who intuit
standing still will render them invisible.
Let's ask each other three questions
and we have to answer,
the smaller one said.
Something emerged from that triangle of closeness;
In the sycamore tree of my girlhood yard,
I would swing, an animal no one saw.
I listened to the moan made by August wind
before rain, scraped fingernails against bark
to feel the brittle texture.
Now I'm prone to thinking
I can tame anyone with soup
or conversation but this isn't truth;
just hope. I remember questions
I once had; where did Grandma go?;
why does it hurt?
When no one told me,
I made up answers.
In the trees, the world is limitless
and breezes are soft hands.
Little girls with autumn colored hair
scamper off to unseen families.
I ride the path
as if I know the ruts and turns,
and where it all will end.
(This poem first appeared in Wavelength.) |
I notice her half smile, delicate face,
copper hair spilling over one gray eye —
there is resignation and there's grace.
No one waits beside her--just empty space,
a chair that may have held a deeper grief.
I notice her half smile, delicate face.
She clutches her x-rays, battered suitcase,
gazes at lush-haired magazine models.
There is resignation and there's grace.
She's a beauty, wide-eyes, freckles lace
across taut cheeks; shirt hides her altered form.
I notice her half smile, delicate face.
Her eyes find me, focus without a trace
of sadnesss; she begins to read a book.
There is resignation and there's grace.
The clinic continues its frantic pace
while she, absorbed, sits silent as the night.
There is resignation and there's grace.
I notice her half-smile, delicate face.
|
