The fire that flares up again after long smoldering years
elusive but still a reality only if trust how lovely
life can be in the everydayness women at
fifty learn to let doors close but also
open new that appear always there in rooms
we’ve not come back to so much as
seen anew or
built from the ruins of walls torn down.
In the mirror I re-identify the yin I have held since
______________
though life had me hold tight to my yan.
I know beauty like the palm of my hand no like
the shape of my brow that I glance at so often in passing with its missing spot there at center as my mother pointed out in the rearview mirror.
Beauty which is really truth is the undressing I
see anymore only.
I know this like I know my mind. No. My hands.
At work in the paint that is light once again. Life builds walls and doors and I walk
through. Full of what the search
has done to my spirit smiling
thank God I can feel around the studs and see my soul is still yet
pioneering.
I feel as if I have become too small for the love that’s sized for me.
It is hidden and quiet and for so long I have sought for it in the loud, raucous
ravenous.
The pollen falls from the anther dusting the stigma of my soul now still yet
the only organ alive alive alive ho.
What now do I have to offer?