My granddaughter Cali is a junior.
How can this be?
Two seconds ago her mother was a junior.
I remember it as well as I remember anything else.
Maybe better.
Life tromps past me, hurling me into space,
Throwing me into walls, bloodying my toes.
Turning me into a hag or a crone.
I never know which one to be on which day
But I recognize they both have seriously great attributes.
I look into a mirror
Not recognizing myself
Expecting to see me at seventeen.
Which was fifty-one years ago
Luckily, I married my boyfriend of seventeen
And he has never seen me get a day older.
Categories:
tromps, age,
Form: Free verse
The flop and flurry
of woozy wings
tromps over hedgerows.
Claws scrabble
feathers flounce.
Here a rowdy cackle
in a coddled coo,
there a hullabaloo
in a ruffled flutter.
Birdsongs pumps up,
balloon into chattering tunes.
Another teaming tussle,
another musical lurch
as sleepy birds
roll off
their nocturnal perch.
Categories:
tromps, poetry,
Form: Free verse