Sunday, November 15, 2020

 Photo of butterfly on zinnia in my garden by Janet Wyatt

Talking to Myself Forty-Eight November 15, 2020

The past is never the past, though

it may seem so. Yes, we’re older,

and yet certain days and years still

live inside us. We remember moments

of extreme happiness, watching out

the train window as we pass the

peasant houses, the fields in rain.

So deeply green the soft grasses,

tender, unforgettable; the agony

of loss, and yet a new story, a

new understanding in a quiet

house, where I am fully at home,

yet guarded, protected from much

exertion. I proof my new book,

which takes me back a quarter

of a century or more. I’ve told

all my secrets, the loves that

sustained me, the friends who

cherished me then and still do,

as I cherish them. I am given

new ways to imagine even

my spirit’s gift, a kind of

knowing. The natural world 

opened my eyes and listened

to the secret words of my heart.

Nothing was lost. Everything

important to me is still here.

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