I have written poems everyday. The problem is that the love poem part seems to be much harder this year than last year. Perhaps part of the problem is that I have been struck down with illness after having nursed my family out of the flu or cold or strep or pink eye, et cetera, et cetera.
So today I thought I would concentrate really hard right now on writing something truly about love.
“Moving”
Like moving from home to home
Without any help — just you and me
And a huge rented van every few years
Or so — we would take all our baggage
And furniture — and later one baby
After another and another and another
Negotiating hallways and stairwells
Elevators and garages and sticky keys
And the seasons — remember
The green and yellow menacing
Cloud rising with the wind off
The shoulders of the trees
From the window of our new condo
Across the pond in a fair city
Or the moose that wandered
Into the yard of our country home
Remember the dogs — now gone —
How they ran to he alpaca farm
Over and over again? And the people
who let us play with their yard toys.
And the lady next door who hated children
And complained until the landlord
Had to write a letter to us and I cried
And then we moved over and over
From one coast to another
And life was full of adventure
And stress but we were together
And that was all that mattered
And someday we will move again
The children will take their things
And go and leave us — or not — but
In the end all we will have is each other
Until one of us is left to move alone.
Note: In my young adult days I moved around quite a bit. And then a little more while we had kids.
Zina in Wonderland 