I need stronger verbs to plunk
in perfect spots, metaphors
to materialize, deeper knowledge
of anything – geology, mythology,
maybe fishing. But all I have
is my little life. Loves lost and gained,
daughter raised, my regular rhythm
of decent sleep, healthy food,
reading and writing, working
just enough to pay the bills, keeping
my roots dyed. I know there is poetry
around and in between, if I can find it.
Words for the taste of blackberries
or mangoes, for example, for
the courage of winter crocuses,
the juiciness of thick paint on the brush.
For sun sliding across thin spring stems
of shamrock, for the memory of my mother’s
face powder, Misty Rose. There must
be dream-terms for passing through
light, for the passion of flamenco.
I keep working at it. I really do. Even now,
with the sound of the washer beating against
my poet-brain and the bills calling to be counted, I do.