girl

thirty-seven in a
yellowed image, blunt haircuts and knowing smiles
dappled light and folded hands, elbows resting casually on knees
knees wearing slacks instead of dresses
delicate bracelets hanging, bright silver against summer skin
the only adornment
feet bare and childlike,
a silent protest 
I understand


These versions of the girls who wrote the most beautiful words
all glossy and faded on the inside of a book sleeve.
not the photograph taken three months before death at the age of 83
after a four-year fight with cancer, or such
whispy gray in patches 
necks wrinkled, skin stretched
hands spotted and gnarled
hands that held warm cups of tea in a favorite mug
hands that helped toddlers to their feet
hands that dried the tears of their friend after a miscarriage
hands that dug into cool, dark earth and buried seeds
got all dirty under the fingernails
evidence of life and muscle and sweat and ardor.
in the end, fingernails are always clean, probably

I think of all the wisdom held in those beautiful heads at the end
what would they have written about, then?
what poems does an 83-year-old girl dream up
folded delicately into stark white hospital sheets
Are we always who we were at
seven, at twelve, at twenty?
only with a refinement, a resignation 

But we choose the younger image, the strong and healthy self
as if there is little dignity in enduring
and ultimately dying
(which is, of course, the one thing we all have in common)

but perhaps when I go
you will choose the latter
the one with the whispy hair and spotted hands
years written on my body
the head full of memories and unspoken wisdom 
that we all, eventually, just have to figure out for ourselves

early riser

what I'm listening to: Fishin' by Luisa Marion 

silhouetted against a pearlescent sky
the swoop and the flit
the lilting whistle
and choruses of chirps
I'll never stop writing about them
their small black bodies on the wire
their conversations and the shape of their wings when they fly
how they draw us into simplicity

things matter and they don't
or rather, the wrong sort of things matter

on summer mornings, I shut my bedroom window 
to block out the sound
and I draw the curtains to block out the sun 
but lately, I am pulled outward
like the face of the blooms
are always looking toward the sun

I used to wonder how people woke up
in a history without alarm clocks
I hadn't even considered the call
that pips and pecks at my dreams
before the sun has chance to rise

there is one in the garden
pecking at my plants -
robin is always the boldest.
goldfinch feels like a treat
her tiny striking flash of yellow,
she is cautious, and precious as a gem.
starling with his metallic chirrups 
and the same nest in our gutter every spring.
cardinal loves the striped seeds from my sunflower forest
and is never without her mate
astonishing every time in his apple-red,
and the crows are complaining loudly to one another
in the crest of trees just over there
I always wonder if they recognize me,
smart as they are
if they hate me, love me, but really
any strong emotion toward me would do
making me their counterpart
and feel as if I have a place in their world
rather than the reverse,
which is that this is my world
and they have a place in it.