Oh, we’ve been wild
All weekend, we reveled
in who we usually are Not.
I played a woman who throws
dinner parties and plates,
handles with aplomb
recipes gone wrong,
a woman who lives on wine
and crepes, who doesn’t need
much sleep or any solitude,
a woman who loves to shop for
new clothes and containers,
all kinds—vases, baskets, teapots—
things to hold the things this kind of woman drops—
earrings, cash, homemade chocolates, tiny jars of eye cream.
Oh, it has been a funny whirlwind of zesty woman costumes.
Now, welcome home to my own quiet self,
writing through the long winter days,
drowsily recalling all the weekend women we were.
And you? How are things there, inside,
where you really live?
Tag Archives: poem about friends
Oh, we’ve been wild
Back here again, in the country of clocks,
there’s no time to write a poem.
Inside my head, behind the gears and metal wheels,
wander poems about quilts and wildflowers,
old friends and that maple tree I saw yesterday,
each green leaf edged orange
so precise it looked painted onto the leaves.
Contrast made the green brighter
than all the million greens surrounding it.
Something rattles around in me, humming
about that contrast—
how it reminds me of my old friends—
but the chain of words and thoughts
to get from leaf to ladies takes time
and that is gone, again.
We meet again, decades later,
Choosing rhubarb and pink geraniums
At the farm market. It took long moments
For us to peer through the wrinkles and
Gray hair and bushy eyebrows but
Suddenly I saw you at five—
Long brown hair, schoolgirl plaid,
Your huge family, picnic benches instead
Of chairs at your kitchen table.
I remember your deep, scratchy voice,
So funny on a little girl.
It finally fits. There should be a new word
For this old moment
When time pulls back like curtains on a stage
And here among the spring plants
And baskets of ripe berries
Two people look up, cross years,
And say, I knew you in that other world.
is the phrase in my head
when I fold this ink on paper
into its clever envelope.
And I say it to myself in a clipped British accent,
and a crisp cotton dress, belted, with a
full skirt. Matching heels. Nylons.
I pick up my tiny handbag,
slip on white gloves, pearl buttons at the wrist,
and go to post your letter.
Days like these, this is me
waving to the past
on its huge island,
while everyone else on my ship
rows frantically forward,
hurling electronic messages into
the static filled sky of now
(except you, posting a letter to me).
Shadorma is a poem of counted lines of syllables, like this: 3/5/3/3/7/5
plus my same old life
plus you, friend–
long walks, longer talks, good food,
the plain world blossoms.