I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
People always seem to think I am like them, but
how can I be? There are so many of them! Cup
the feminine in one hand; clench weapons that cut
in the other. Play at mock battles with the boys;
at the quilting bee, chatter and stitch with the girls.
I’m not faking it, no pretense — both give me joys.
Do I love dragonflies or bees? Burls or pearls?
What am I? What am I? A rainbow reflection
from a prismatic sign, or an oil slick. Mist blurs
the moon’s edges. Cross the bridge in both directions.
Look into my smart mirror. Behind it brilliance whirs
and spins, unimagined, shifting. What will I be?
Neither fish nor fowl nor fair red meat, but all three.
- May 2013
- April 2013
- February 2013
- November 2012
- October 2012
- June 2012
- May 2012
- April 2012
- March 2012
- January 2012
- November 2011
- July 2011
- June 2011
- May 2011
- April 2011
- February 2011
- January 2011
- December 2010
- November 2010
- July 2010
- June 2010
- May 2010
- April 2010
- March 2010
- October 2009
- September 2009
- July 2009
- June 2009
- May 2009
- April 2009
Tags"emily dickinson" audio automotive belltower birds blooming blossoms books bus campanile cars courtship creation dreams drugs elderly fatigue flowers haiku health healthcare job language love magnolias medication medicine men Momentile NaPoWriMo nursery rhyme people podcast poems poetry reading seniors sleep sonnet sound stories tanka Villanelle vision work