Sunday, November 18, 2018

The Late Years One

My backyard in 2009, with zinnias, cosmos, and White Rock hens.

The Late Years  November 4, 2018


After hesitating, the cold comes down.
Nearly freezing, with wind. Sun
combats clouds, winning by afternoon.
Hard to know what is best when there
are so few choices. If I have at least
the gray before full dawn, I can see my
way. Full sun, when it comes, is
intoxicating even if I can’t look it in
the face. My life is circumscribed to
small spaces, for writing and for
sleeping. Three hours in the kitchen
exhausts me, but I still make pear
preserves. I venture to the hen house
to open their shutters and let them into
their yard and the orchard. I feed and 
drop bread crumbs to watch them
shriek and scramble. I plot robust
meals, take frequent breaks to rest,
read, or write a few pages. I’m putting
books in print and writing poems.
I still have students who like my 
Muse-inspired approach to critiquing.
A young woman studies my life,
early and late. Another woman trusts
me with the novel she worries over.
A third welcomes me when I go to
walk at the big dam and teaches me 
about eagles. My son lifts the heavy
chores off my shoulders. My Muse
still speaks, when I open my mind. 
People say, “Have a blessed day.”  All
my days lately are blessed. I’m loved.

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