- Green of Late June
The trees bow down, bow
down and dusty weeds
rise up to meet them. The wisteria
along the fence sends greedy tendrils
to snare what passes by
and I, keeping my record,
surprise myself by being here at all.
But is there any other place to be?
America, the world, the universe
—children addressing letters
The emperor Akbar said
seeing the Valley of Kashmir,
“If there is Paradise on earth
it is here, it is here, it is here.”
The nurses wear white pants and flowered shirts,
no longer bound to starchy uniforms,
quaint caps. Friends drift in and out
on their way to the bookstore, the Cape,
wearing new white shorts and blouses. They bring me
the elusive flora and fauna of their—oh fortunate—lives.
My feet—last vanity
two bloated pigs.
Elastic stockings, so tight
my husband has to tug them on.
I, who put polish on my nails
and went barefoot all summer.
Is this the same who, every morning
reaches her arms out to her husband,
looks eagerly out the window, and
gives thanks for the enormous present
of another day?