growing older and stranger

Lately, I am capable of small things. 

 

Peeling an orange. 

Drawing a bath. 

Throwing the cat's tinsel ball. 

 

Believe me, this is not unhappiness.

Only one question ~
why this layering on of abeyance?

Though it is winter inside of me~

                            there is also spring and fall.
 

Yellow tulips in need of planting
root in a basket by the door.

Tonight, mortality seems cloistered in a pinecone
 

                            close-windowed, remote.
 

What was the peak moment
of your happiness?
 

                            And how did you know?
 

For weeks, it's been oatmeal,
the Internet, an Irish shawl.

I realize, I am growing older
and stranger.
 

                            Please, don't misunderstand.
 

I am still impatient 

still waiting for symbiant and swoon
 

                            the litter of blue-gold~
 

                                        a one-time constellation:
 

Now, before you go.

 

[Susan Rich 'Letter to the End of the Year', from Fire on Her Tongue: An Anthology of Contemporary Women’s Poetry]