How unlike my spirits
this abundant freshness
of spring, each green
an experiment, like a girl
trying on, first time,
lipstick and stockings.
How old I feel against
the heavenly blue
of days, the late light
picking up jewels
of early blooms,
softening limbs
performing in space
like dancers. I lost
my slippers years ago
—perhaps in the fire
that led to woman-
hood—so I do not
join the chorus. I pull
on a metaphysical cigarette,
sip harsh scotch, wear
rolled socks and blue jeans
taste the coarse green
of bitterweeds—
what the cows eat that
makes their milk sour.
This article appears in April 2012.
