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He stared, level-eyed, at the other
“You have to do it for yourself, whatever it is,” he said to him.
“There is no one to please but yourself.
When you find you’ve been doing it for anyone else,
you’ve stepped off the path.”

Then he turned and moved away.
My image remained behind in the mirror
to consider my words.

a setting sun in my palm
red-gold beacon
at the end of a transformative journey;
I cannot help but be drawn to you

greedy treasure hunter
I tear down these painted walls
open the tomb
reveal the treasure

sunlight’s alchemy
bursts you forth
into golden bars;
a brief miracle

then my desire (or yours?) overcomes me;
only curling chips of paint remain
but I am glowing now—
you have consumed me

I did not make a lunch today,
At noon I shall step outside and swallow up the clouds,
Wash them down with raindrops
Until sky is all that is left.
I'll wrap myself in that blue blanket
And wear the sun as a hat,
Tipped low over my eyes,
Lean up against a tree
And take a siesta.

It is as though in a dream—
or no, the way dreams are interpreted in film
clean, uncluttered, deliberate

I am standing before a wide picture window
outside: an empty parking lot, daylight
monotonous gray

from out of view at right
a carnation pink balloon appears
tumbles briskly, purposefully, to the left, disappears

my mind is stunned to stillness
by this unreal, mythic, symbolic event
the symmetry, the timing, the shock of color over gray

like a crashing wave, mind careens back into action
frenzied thoughts, analogies, explanations overlap—
oh, to return to the jubilant stillness!

"I'm not looking forward to getting old"
my husband says, his
hair grayed impossibly,
blue eyes already betraying
the youthful fire they once held

"It's better than the alternative"
I answer him, smiling, winking,
the wrinkles around my eyes deepening,
fulfilling the promise I once made to myself
when I was, oh yes, young:
to let them bear me to my crone age
without protest
like the swift feet
of the black birds
they are known by

we do not look forward
to getting old
(we just look backward
and wonder how it happened
so very fast)
we do not look forward
to it any more than
we could look forward
to being born