I feel the urge to write a poem
on this warm wet solstice with the world a mess;
soon the kids are coming home.
I’ll put on my tinkly earrings and run a comb
and maybe even don a dress
but first, I seek the firmament of a poem.
The ice is melting fast in Nome
and everywhere signs of planetary distress,
but just a few days now until the kids come home
with girlfriends as sweet and complex as honeycomb
(I watch them sneak a casual upper-arm caress)
and I welcome them here into my poem.
One day I hope they’ll expand our genome
and I’ll try to play matriarch with grace and finesse
when the kids bring kids in their car seats home.
We dwellers of this gorgeous earth can’t know how long we’ll roam,
can’t say our domicile has been a success
so I seed the world with a sack full of poems
while we’re all madly suckling on Google Chrome,
and where our machines will lead us is anyone’s guess,
but soon the kids’ brass keys will click in the door of home.
I’ll warm the cocoa until the milk starts to foam.
By the tree, the pile of shiny boxes lays bare our largesse,
and though this world wobbles, how rich and abundant its loam
and its homemade gifts: caring kids and an unexpected morning poem.
—
Michele Herman’s novel, Save the Village, was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Prize, and she’s published two chapbooks: Victory Boulevard and Just Another Jack. Her work has appeared in recent issues of Carve, Ploughshares, The Hudson Review, The Sun and LitHub. She’s a devoted teacher at The Writers Studio.
