We grown  women now with memories
of hazy slat porches
culverts, purple martin haylofts, 
rows of peonies, summer gliders
cigarettes shaky over coffee cups
utility lights on posts coming on 
in the gloaming. There was no day
not given to wonder
cisterns scalded them soft baby legs
holding onto old horse manes
full of sweat and chiggers
blackberry scratches and low mud ponds
Tell me, when you remember
nights of slow moving air and 
the laughter of adults winding out
under mimosa trees
do you say, I would give a dozen
tomorrows for one day of that spirea bush,
flagstones along a rural route
or do you say, give me wisdom to understand
the dark matter we all resign ourselves to?
A turkey buzzard pokes at the belly
of a dead box turtle on the asphalt,
then sails over Twin Creek, 
singing as it wings:
This is you
This is it
This is now