I.
Children grown, or almost
She still likes sex a little wild,
a little daring.
Post-menopausal, yes,
but feels like 20—life still full of mystery
and anything is possible,
the next bend in the road
is the only one that matters.
II.
Belly once flat and firm
as the floor
Now softened from birthing
her five children,
a waistline expanded
in direct proportion to her heart.
III.
When the lilacs and crab apples
bloom in Spring, she is three again,
or four or five at her grandparents’ farm.
Laying in the soft cool grass
beneath the flowering trees, breathing
in their unspoken promises
there was no way to know, then,
what pain would rain down
with a multitude of other’s sins,
falling over her
like scattered petals.
IV.
Sometimes the past rushes over her
like water over stone,
carving deep caverns into her basalt
and filling them up with ancient tears.
V.
Her breasts are heavy with the lives
of the many children she has nursed.
Being a woman of a certain age,
sometimes it hurts to stand up.
Little lines around her eyes
tell her stories, and her skin
is no longer soft as a fawn’s ear.
Yet, other times, she forgets all of this
and laughs like a young girl,
small and satisfied with being alive.
VI.
Something wild runs through her core,
something ancient and sweet,
untamed and unnameable
One day, she will lay down on this Earth,
her river will run to the sea and she will be—at once—
always and never was,
her wild tangle of love the only remembrance.
By Sheila Weidendorf
Sheila Weidendorf is a pianist and mother of five who split her time between the Pacific Northwest coast of the USA and Rajasthan. Although she is primarily a performing artist, she has been writing poetry and spiritual essays since about the age of ten, and is very passionate about it. She can be contacted at sweidendorf@icloud.com
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