One minute I burst with life,
creating and laughing
the next I am staring down the years
and can’t quite find the strength to
go walking and talk with the slim-waisted trees
who must stand for another hundred autumns.
Oh, some of them don’t push their roots too far.
Those, I can hear when I press my ear
against their bark.
They are waiting on the November winds—
taking their chances, waving
at the scudding clouds and other ephemera.
I’m opting for January.
I hope to arm wrestle with God until he gives me
a new Name
or bow and pull my fine hair off the nape of my neck.
Firewood, flesh, not much difference
when drifted into the snow.