You recognize no rush, awareness moving through
your spiral, a chiral house, both masculine and feminine.
You understand sometimes it’s required to pull yourself in,
shut the door, as a means of self-preservation and protection,
resurrection, renewal come to pass with a spring rain.
Your soft flexible foot adapts to your environment,
feeling your way through the world, a symphony of
raw elegy and melodic glory and delight.
Your tiny lungs breathe in each wondrous moment,
the lilies conversing with the hostas,
bright red strawberries lazy in the sun,
as you feed on small lettuce leaves,
sweet earthy fungi, a gastronomic feast.
Your eye stalks are like periscopes seeing the splendor
of your pace, the beauty of the rotting October pumpkin,
as you circulate, decompose, and recycle nutrients,
taking care of the dead while we sleep.
Your smooth silvery trail remains for hours
long after your passing,
like the winter memories of those we’ve lost,
hallowed footprints noticed.
—
Judith Wade writes poetry and creative non-fiction. Her poem “Cello Player” was published in The Flying Island, an Indiana Writers Center publication. Her poem “Swan’s Flight” was published in Indianapolis’ Branches Magazine, and The Jawbone 2022, a Wick Poetry Center publication. Her story “The Year of the Tiger” was published in Speaking Your Truth, Courageous Stories from Inspiring Women. She’s working on a book about her Ireland and UK adventures. Her Patreon site is www.patreon.com/judithwade.
