For a fellow poet.
She watches the neighbors in their yards.
She has lived there so long, they are surprised whenever she speaks
And at the sharpness of her tone.
Still, it is but a whisper from her vast store of knowledge.
In a corner of her closet she placed the walking stick
That had brought her over the mountains,
Along with thousands who trailed her.
She folded the shawl that had warded off blindness,
Especially the ignorance of others.
Even though the clouds weep,
And each day becomes a cracked mirror,
She now celebrates anniversaries with those of her craft.
Her sinewed hands open the parcel of reflections,
And unwrap a package to take out
Afternoon’s sun-gold.
Andy Oram
June 2, 2022