They are children

They are children
running out
into the street
because we can't watch them all.

The traffic
going once more
to their daily grind
hits them
without a thought
and doesn't stop.

We turn away
and try not
to take the blame.

I Am There

This year,

the purple is

unnecessary;

the covering of the statues,

the desert atmosphere,

bare branches on the altar

and sand

in the holy water font.


It is not necessary

to contrive a season

of mourning.


It is not necessary

to manufacture

the tiresome, ashen, darkness

to get in touch with the reality of

my spiritual poverty.



I am there.

My Own Lent

the purple curtain

     d
      e
       s
        c
         e
          n
          d
           s

upon the setting sun

bringing with it my own Lent


replete with

leafless branches

waiting to bud

and desert sand


thirsting

for cool relief.

writing with one hand

tied

behind me, thoughts and memories

swirl

the mud that is stirred


blinding me


to what

is



underneath.

she speaks

of the cliches

of aging

poetry

and of

      the ways

the wind

has

                                        blown


the pages



            unnaturally

into

the future.

Detour

Her mind,
unwilling,
or unable
to intertwine and commingle
with the increasingly impenetrable
extent of her helplessness,
creates its own intricate version
of the genesis of her fears.

Once familiar objects
are no longer recognized,
placed there, she says, by others.

They become a threat.

She sees change where none exists,
instead of recognizing
the changes
in herself.

How do we wake her
from one nightmare
to the other?

Which is worse when you are 81--
the imagination
or the reality?