My life was once marked by the rhythm of childbirth classes. I measured time through the lens of due dates, following cohorts of round bellies that gave way to parents in love with dewy fresh babies. We would gather these babies in a DAISY formation, heads in the center and bodies curled like pastel petals. We would gaze in amazement at this preciousness, trying to STAMP the moment in our minds. I was so aware of the fleeting nature of it all, feeling that perhaps if I could STARE hard enough time could be still, just a little. It never grew STALE, this STATE of wonder, this cracking open of the world to celebrate hope and possibilities.

Georg’ann

Early Spring Evening.

Walking my neighborhood
is like a scene from a MOVIE,
the feel good slice of life kind.
The former hospital property
is taking SHAPE. Grassy knolls
and such. Historic sidewalks
flaking like SLATE.

In the park some teens SKATE.
On the basketball court, alone,
a famous poet & essayist shoots
baskets. He bounces and twists
to Erykah Badu soulfully singing.

Men chatting, carrying styrofoam
boxes, move in a meandering line,
reminiscent of ants.
Going from one building to another
at the Center for Recovery. Dinner.

Sitting on our front wall,
taking in the settling of dusk,
my eye is caught by something
shiny hanging on the handrail.
Guess I’ve been in a distracted STATE
for months, not having noticed this
black cat Christmas ornament.

Heather