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Marilyn Hazelton

Late Morning

Screws and plate holding my right ankle together, I angle the walker and hop left-footed through the garage door. Under wisteria, yesterday's rain falls sparingly. Arrows of wing and feather zigzag like red or yellow messages. I ease into a chair to read an article on the life of Issa.

white blossoms
pass their bridal stage
vines leafing, twining

As birdcall weaves need for love, come here! and warning, not you! fire trucks howl, shrieking their way to flame and curl of smoke, shattered windows, mom's canning jars blackened in my basement four years ago.

wisteria's tiny cups
still open
for bumblebees

Five springs have passed since my son's death. Chipmunks skitter, pause, skitter. With my ankle propped up in shade punctured by sun, I brood on sadness and the limits of my life.

a male goldfinch
in breeding attire
glances at me