Shadows Seven

My figs during their prosperous years--2011, August.

Shadows Seven April 29, 2018

Beginnings are hardest. In the morning
I sit up slowly, inch my way closer
to a place to hold on, rise carefully,
balance before I walk. I make sure I don’t 
go too long without eating and sleep early.
As the day waxes, my confidence returns.
I remember what I need to, see to the hens,
make notes in my diary, in which I tell
the whole story. Sometimes I start to fall,
but I catch myself. At the dam I walk
steadily, don’t fear falling. Back at
home I’m warmer, shed layers, resume
morning tasks and rituals, with enough
energy for the day. By myself I see the 
years of faithful work to leave my legacy 
of stories and insights alive behind me.
Among others I see their discomfort.
They don’t look at me. They forget 
my place in the line-up of poets. I make 
them nervous. Why? Maybe because
I look into Death’s face and am not
afraid. How does one find that
particular courage? It arrives in time
to be useful in the last years, but I
realize I’ve practiced going my own way 
most of my life, since age twenty-one,
to nearly eighty-one. Not dismissing
urgencies that would keep me whole
and safe, not denying love when it
defied logic. Those who hated me? I 
stayed away, and generally, they did, too.
I sometimes lose things or forget them, 
but I’ve never forgotten to safeguard
my soul and keep it whole, no matter 
what my circumstances are.