When old crones wandered in the woods,
I was the hero on the hill
in clear sunlight.
Death's hounds feared me.
Smell of wild fennel,
high loft of sweet fruit high in the branches
of the flowering plum.
Then I am cast down
into the terror of childhood,
into the mirror and the greasy knives,
woodpile under the fig trees
in the dark.
It is only
the malice of voices, the old horror
that is nothing, parents
I don't know how we survive it.
On this sunny morning
in my life as an adult, I am looking
at one clear pure peach
in a painting by Georgia O'Keefe.
It is all the fullness that there is
in light. A towhee scratches in the leaves
outside my open door.
He always does.
A moment ago I felt so sick
and so cold
I could hardly move.