October travel calls from months away.
My first-born has her golden jubilee.
I’m sponsoring a trip for us – I’ll pay
the fares for where she’ll soon decide to be.
It looks like London’s her first choice, to stay
at least a week, with days in NYC
before, and Paris after: beds to book,
and flights to buy, and good times while we look.
It took some weeks to get the gardener here,
but I and winter wilt could stand the wait.
He came last week, with tools to prune and shear
the overgrowth away from door to gate.
There’s more to do before all paths are clear
and pokeweed meets its demolition fate,
but progress shows, in leaf and limb and soil.
I Zelle with happy gratitude his toil.
Announcing hospice as the next address
to which she’ll move her mother, I was stunned.
I hid surprise to not compound her stress,
but had no clue the case was moribund.
Poor thing: her mother’s age is three years less
than 80. We all thought she had a fund
of years ahead, but slippage isn’t mind
alone. Her fails are of the lethal kind.
He wasn’t pleased I didn’t deign to pause
and let him canvass me to give or sign.
His “don’t you care about black women” clause
exasperated me. I can refine
objection – I don’t quarrel with the cause –
but I object to wasted words. A line
should be effective, conscientious, styled.
But I was whitely elderly profiled.
Near 20 years ago my father died,
and statements Mom then made resound in me.
Although since 6 she tended to deride
what drafts I shared of prose and poetry,
she voiced concern about her legacy.
She looked askance and warned “Don’t paint me ill.”
At graveside I orated eulogy,
but since then words of praise evade my quill.
A former neighbor carved our yard, contoured
the square of weedy dirt between our doors,
and planted chosen foliage: assured
to us a garden here. She moved away,
but her design and many shrubs endured,
and I esteem her work, and volunteers
that found the ground as birds and insects lured
them. Here we planted neither bulbs nor spores,
but yearly I find lilies, March-matured.
I thought I’d dedicate today to rest –
no exercise or writing, no commute.
I’d be a sedentary girl – at best,
I might acquire birthday gifts or fruit.
But I have time – the shelf’s not destitute,
and anniversaries are days away.
I liked the stationary ride. To suit
my health I’ll stop the stir, and sit all day.
I used to know exactly how a cold
proceeds in me, from throat to nose to chest.
But unpredictable is growing old –
less often ill but more allergic, messed
in joint and hand strength, prone to bruise, cajoled
by recollection. Am I sick? I guessed
perhaps, last night, but now am I unwell?
I’m thinking maybe not, but time will tell.
The rain surprise at 5 a.m. was nice –
a patter on the skylight as I drowsed –
and then again at 7:30 – twice,
an unpredicted more-than-drizzle roused
me to variety. I gave advice
to self alone, and bided dryly housed
until the laden coastal clouds had passed,
my Monday morning satisfaction vast.
A conversation Thursday night revealed
our different comprehensions of a term.
The morning afterward enlarged the field –
a friend insisted, vehemently firm,
we both were wrong. That evening I appealed
to yet a fourth. He guessed, until a germ
of dictionary definition grew.
Apparently none understood. Who knew?
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