All the Ages of Me

A new collection begins with just one poem. Then, sometimes, that poem sits for a while, gathering virtual dust in a neglected electronic filing corner. But the seed has been planted, and you wouldn’t think there’s enough fertilizer in dust to let that seed grow, but you see a sprout out of the corner of your eye and decide it’s time to do some nurturing. Now there are two poems. Who knows how this will end…

Age 18

A soft voice whispers

in my brain,

soothing,

reasonable,

responsible,

and I swat it out of existence

like a mosquito

whose hunger will not feed

on my blood.

Leave the neurons in peace

to trace the patterns

my soul will follow

through a maze of

dead-end streets,

lonely roads,

and boys

who hang out on the corner.

I will find my own way

to the light.

************************

Age 22

Little spider,

this is no place

for you to start a life,

here, on my sweater,

gossamer threads

among the cable knit.

I'll be gone

with the breeze

that brought you here

to weave your soul

in the swaying grasses

firmly rooted in the earth.

I am a floater,

a flier,

a drifter.

No roots

to entwine my life

with yours upon the ground.

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