Linda Hillman Chayes

Lucky

Tiny wings are helicoptering
off the maples
onto fresh mulch.
The neighbor’s
dog is yapping just like
yesterday and the day
before and I am wondering
what kind of future
is left while my coffee
cools. So many seeds.
I start to picture a forest
of maples for the owner after
the owner after the next
owner.  The earth is going
where it goes and
though a younger me believed
I was conducting, it turns out
I am just waiting
for my stop. In truth,
the maples have gotten
the better of me. Arguments
and intentions that seemed
imperative are now wafting
through the air with the
samaras. I need to warn
the owner after the owner after
the next owner, warn her
you own nothing. Caretaker maybe.
Plumber. You can fix the grout
between the stones, prune
the runaway rose,
muzzle the yapping, paint
and then paint again,
wash the windows
and wash the cars and wash
the babies and then let them go.
Still, when the sun funnels
through the dense maples, posits
silver halos on the patio, you
won’t believe your luck. 

Back to Issue XII…