A BALANCING ACT
Now
that I’m an octogenarian,
I balance on the equator of my world
that divides young from old, hot from cold.
“It’s all a matter of attitude.” they say.
“You are as young as you feel.”
I have a problem with that platitude.
Some of me feels youthful and some feels ancient.
Too often the venerable, supported by arthritis,
wins the argument and tells my body “ninety nine,”
although my mind says “twenty nine!”
I’ve
seen them, shivering in nursing homes,
their eyes empty as the shells
of last year’s Easter eggs. They sit alone,
hoping for the visit from the dark prince.
I abhor that look of desperation.
So I seek out young people
who enable me to feel unseasoned.
I watch their boundless energies,
the flames in their eyes
like erupting forest fires,
overtaking the continent.
I catch fire with them, love the heat,
living for a while on the hot side of my equator.
AMELIA'S HANDS
and baptized
in a thousand dishwashings
she dries them again.
Hums a tune about washed
in the blood of the lamb.
Picks up her mending,
Wednesday’s work
after Monday’s washday,
Tuesday’s ironing.
She threads a needle,
places a thimble
on a crooked finger,
bones too close for comfort.
Liver spots can’t hide
the frightened rivers running
beneath tissue paper skin.
She picks up a piece,
almost a rag,
and tries to save
her husband’s sock.