Antiques everywhere you gaze—
brown chair, lace crocheted across its arms,
coverlets to conceal the stains of living.
Daylight and oblong leaves. What to
erase or soften so you can begin again.
Frayed air? Silver dust speckling the baseboard?
Glint in the mirror, a hint of an earlier you—
hungry and whole, unfazed, you said,
into the face of the tilt-a-whirl world.
Jade-bright, it was, a place you could
kneel in, disciple of root and water and waiting.
Light sings. Isn’t that how you described it?
Maker of plans, the window wide as a cry.
Notice how this room hosts your echo,
offers not to change you. The morning
proposes to your knees, your hips, to the unbroken
quince left standing in the yard. Every cell
recites its own story. The griefs add up.
See how they travel your body’s length,
tunnel through fascia and vein. You won’t be
undone, say the branches, say the flurry of finches.
Verve, you call it, what wakes in their throats,
what trembles. You at the doorsill—oxalis,
xanthous-colored grass. An old habit,
yoking time to pleasure. This body’s meant for both.
Zoom in—the minutes, the hours—widen your eye.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sharon Pretti’s work has appeared in Nostos, Spillway, Calyx, JAMA, The Bellevue Literary Review and elsewhere. She is also an award-winning haiku poet and a frequent contributor to haiku journals including Modern Haiku and Frogpond. She works as a medical social worker at a large county hospital where she also leads a poetry group for seniors and disabled adults. For many years Sharon taught poetry workshops at assisted living facilities in Marin County and San Francisco.