Daffodils make my heart sing each and every spring since I saw my first one — I would have been about 15. I had’t lived in places that had daffodils. It was love at first sight. I planted a hundred daffodil bulbs about 32 years ago. They multiplied and multiplied. I think it accurate to say that I have thousands now
I ran across e.e. cummings poem some years after that. It too was love at first sight.
in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)
in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes
in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me
My hands cramp, fingers arching backward.
Arthritis. Two Advil daily.
My lower back aches, stooping my spine.
My arches continue their path to flat.
It feels like betrayal this revolt.
I was supple and graceful once upon a time.
First a disco queen and then a yoga diva.
This revolt surprises me.
The me that was me that will always
be me is still there.
But aging and menopause have not been kind to me.
I tell the young’uns not to get old ---
there’s no future in it.
My arm wattles jiggle when I do goddess pose.
Oh, how I wanted something to jiggle when I was 13.
Unnaturally thin for most of my life,
I longed for hips and breasts.
I had neither until the hot flashes were spent.
This extra weight is foreign to me.
There doesn’t seem to be a map for this territory.
I am frequently besmirched by the
indignities of old age.
The beginnings of incontinence,
dull dry brittle hair,
my oily skin suddenly flaky and wrinkled.
But the acne has persisted.
I buy moisturizer and acne remedies.
I’ve quit wearing eyeliner.
The crepe underneath my eyes
prevents a straight line.
My beloved shoes languish in the closet.
My balance precarious --
four-inch heels may be my past.
This menopause cleavage astounds me.
Oh, how I had longed for breasts and
now am plagued by underwire.
This revolt aggravates me.
My visage in the mirror a shock.
Who is that woman?
I feel weighed down by this body in revolt,
but I practice yoga and I continue to dance.
My spirit intact.
The me that was me that will always be me
is still there.
In revolt against the revolt.