Yesterday afternoon I was so tired and happy that I drove all the way downtown to one of the used bookstores, didn’t park, didn’t stop, and didn’t go in, then turned around and went home by another route, quite pleased with what I had done. This morning, I already feel the urge to go back. But I won’t, because we’ll be looking after the grandchildren.
I also thought of a poem. It takes place in a pasture. The calves have all been taken away, and their mothers are under a tree in the shade. What are they thinking? Small white butterflies flutter through the weeds. They could be dancers, spirit flags, or me. The stream downslope is lazy now. The horses beyond the bridge know full well they can be wild if and when they want to be. Along the roadside, fallen angels are walking single file, legs, necks, and arms naked to the sun.
I reached out. The poem was done.