It’s autumn. Rain clouds vanish.
She peers at me through window glass.
From my side, I watch her leaf bouquet
detach, flutter, drift in disarray
toward drying fecund earth.
Through the window we both decode
signals of distress. But I’m the older
wiser woman so I say
Wait, my dear. One January noon
a flower will appear, a bolt of sun,
bright yellow, perfect, perfumed
like your bed. New leaves up-thrust
toward the cry of passing birds
will thrill your stretching arms.
And I, behind the glass? She asks
my empty hands, my perished heart
How does it feel to be older than a tree?
Astonishing, sad, proud.
2010 - present
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