37 {for my mother who gave me poetry for Christmas}

When I was 37 I rediscovered poetry; that was yesterday, it is today.  37 means nothing to me, I feel as though I could be seven or seventeen, eyes open, looking up for an answer, a direction, an affirmation.  And in that looking I find upon me the tasks and responsibilities of adulthood, of parenthood, of the idea of being almost 40.  

Who is this person who longs from the other side of the wall to lay on the floor and play, but does not know how - who does not remember ever knowing - but longs.  Who is this person who seeks affirmation to be what I wish to discover - why?

If only the being and the longing would come into one.  Then I would be an adult blessed with the childlike rather than a child clamoring to juggle the mature realm.

I will be 38 next week and reading poetry has made me feel giddy, like I have been at play; like I am waiting, fully dressed, to be released into a wild and wondrous snow storm with no expectation of when I must return - maybe there is hope for me yet!


With gratitude,



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