Just
by Alan Shapiro
after the downpour, in the early evening,
late sunlight glinting off the raindrops sliding
down the broad backs of the redbud leaves
beside the porch, beyond the railing, each leaf
bending and springing back and bending again
beneath the dripping,
between existences,
ecstatic, the souls grow mischievous, they break ranks,
swerve from the rigid V’s of their migration,
their iron destinies, down to the leaves
they flutter in among, rising and settling,
bodiless, but pretending to have bodies,
their weightlessness more weightless for the ruse,
their freedom freer, their as-ifs nearly not,
until the night falls like an order and
they rise on one vast wing that darkens down
the endless flyways into other bodies.
Nothing will make you less afraid.
Anne sent me this poem on Mom’s birthday this year, and I just ran across it in a mad attempt to organize my gmail inbox. I’ve really enjoyed watching the geese fly low over our home recently. Always makes me think of my mom.
Oct. 31: Aside from chasing the kids around, I haven’t had a regular work-out routine since I was 8 months pregnant with Andrew. I’ve recently decided, though, that it’s time. After spending well over a month waffling about which gym to join, I signed up with