grape roots, some looking 100 years old, in stark contrast to the acre upon acre of new Sonoma grape vineyards, the money crop replacing apples and pears. Last Tuesday four of us ventured out to take photos. I love the weathered texture of the old roots and the stories they tell, so why not extend the same generosity to myself? I came home and wrote the following:
Who Is That Old Woman?
Who is that old woman?
Sleeps in my bed
Eats at my table
She is not me.
Sure, she lives in this house
Naps in this recliner
Drops unread newspapers on my
floor
But she is not me.
Downs pills for heart and
belly
Drinks decaf coffee, one cup
Checks batteries in her
hearing aids
Tut, it is not me.
No dog or cat snuggles her feet
Incessantly freezing
Looking ancient, toenails
yellow.
Alas, she is not me.
Drooping eyes squint at the
tv
Breath jagged, footsteps wary
She rises to pee in the night.
For certain she is not me.
And when she crawls back in
bed
No other curving back warms
her breast
No tender hand strokes her
thigh
Still she is not me.
For I am twenty years
younger.
I climb ladders to pluck pears.
I play Little Sir Echo with
the Great Horned Owl.
I relish workouts at the gym.
I prune sixty roses in spring
I divide 300 iris in August.
And when fall comes, as it is
now,
I embrace the persimmon and
paint up a storm.
Often I melt at the tender
smile of my lover
Who forgives and forgets my
inadequacies.
In whose eyes I am perfect
and still sensuous
As she struggles to steer her
walker to bed.
The old lady who lives here
knows none of this.
She grumbles and growls at
her frailties.
She grasps railings stepping
cautiously
She decries her loneliness at
night.
Perhaps when winter comes I
will
Get up my dander and ask who is
this interloper?
Like a guest who smells like
a fish in three days
She is surely not me.
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1 comment:
I meant this - yes, the photos are beautiful, but this is just so lovely.
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