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| Columbine By a Creek |
The old woman, rolling away
on a stretcher, clawed the air,
leaving goo an inch deep
in her frying pan, a sink
and counter conquered
by crusty dishes, countless
bottles on the windowsills,
and the odor of cat deep
in the carpet. I had once
stared at heart-shaped leaves
of a coleus, timeless,
my grandmother timeless too
as she washed dishes in a patch
of sunlight before my mother
returned. The dog and turtle
at home shared the secret
with the toad, the swallow,
the columbine, the tiny creek
in the neighborhood, before
I was called back and scolding
broke the spell. I was afraid
of the war like everyone, sure
that it would drag on
until my time came, and I forgot,
waking to the alarm clock
so that I could see my father home
from work before I got ready
for school. I believed then
that we had one chance
to forget the clock,
that we could conquer those
who fed us time--we could
because we knew we were
a family that included
the turtle and the dog, the reed
and the minnow, and we could see
the secret in each other's eyes,
gazing hard a long time
because we had to.
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