My writing tends to lean toward essays, especially personal or descriptive ones. Occasionally, though, something comes to me in poetic form, or at least something akin to it. In honor of Poetry Month (yes, I know I’m a few weeks late, but I had other things to write about in April—besides, every month should be Poetry Month) I send you this offering.
They used to call me Earth Mother
in our ’70s consciousness raising group.
I sat like a cat curled up on the floor
in long flowing skirt and macrame belt,
almost always wearing earth tones,
comfortable in my own skin
still sagging from giving birth.
Today, I’m growing back into that old metaphor—
poking bare toes in warm garden soil,
hair wild around me like branches of a gnarled old tree;
or wandering the woods seeking nature’s treasures
to dress up my home.
I still curl up, but in a soft old chair—
I can’t get up from the floor these days.