February 16, 2018Genealogy
after Betsy Sholl
One parent was a river, the other was the tide.
She wandered through her day—she had her ups
and downs.
One was a candle, the other a chandelier—all those
little prisms bending light. No wonder she was bright—
but scattered.
One tinkered, the other shopped.
She puzzled over wheels and springs—then
gave up and bought a watch.
One spoke in numbers, the other, verbs.
She calculated miles ahead by
step and slide.
One flew across the night in streaks of dust, the other
faded out of sight, she’d lost
her wings.
One parent left me a piano, the other a pup.
Now I write songs only a dog
can sing.
from #58 - Winter 2017