Thinking about the changes of middle age and the demands of a good life and a desire for energy to keep pressing to the center of things. Originally published February 6, 2014.

She pushes past coats in the wardrobe, like Lucy seeking light from the lamp post
that stands stalwart,
looks to the whirl of flakes in that hidden place,
the unfolding mystery of choreography

It’s a struggle to the center of things because this room
with wood floors and long drapes is not all,
and a near middle-aged lady too can wonder what lives beyond
woolen and water-repellant nylon and
long ago scents of mothballs,
through that door

In the late afternoon, this same woman might watch water
run down a cutting board for longer than you might imagine,
rivulets cutting lines through her middle,
lost at the kitchen sink in thoughts of aches that don’t fade
and ways humans stuff holes with dirty rags
to keep the wind from rushing in straight,
and she’ll sway

And later she might find herself sitting behind a closed bedroom door
for silence sake listening
to clattering branches and roars that force themselves down streets,
waiting for a storm and snow to fill holes,
make a scribbled page fresh