All things need to be cared for, and from birth to death, we are unprepared for the commitment of upkeep.
There was an inner rhythm,
unlike the seashore on a summer’s night,
and it caught me off guard—
I could touch the sand barefoot,
and reach the sky,
but my starched nightgown met my chin
and birth was something
I was unprepared for.
There was a blue plate with a fillet
and walnut ginger glaze,
only my silver spoons painted it
instead, dabbling in the acrylic, beguiling
the white empty space. And whenever
something appeared that had not been before,
it pained me to carry it from the outsetto its eventual death and metamorphosis.