Imaginary Conversation
You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.
But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first–
all raw astonishment? Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning;
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the East.
You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.
In the Orchard
Why are these old, gnarled trees
so beautiful, while I am merely
old and gnarled?
If I had leaves, perhaps, or apples…
if I had bark instead
of this lined skin,
maybe the wind would wind itself
around my limbs
in its old sinuous dance.
I shall bite into an apple
and swallow the seeds.
I shall come back as a tree.
