A feast of my toes

Today, a poem.

I feel the need to prepare you for the genre shift, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like you wouldn’t notice soon enough. But I do, so I am.

Days after I began work on today’s Scratch, the latest post from Alison Acheson’s

Unschool for Writers

landed in my inbox, which led me to an older piece of hers that reaffirms both the value of poetry and the business of living. In her review of Annie Finch’s A Poet’s Craft, Alison writes, “In our world of ageism—no, I will not back off in saying that!—it’s such a pleasure to hold in hand the work of Experience and Time. There is no substitute for time, thousands of hours spent living a love.”

It started with a familiar wrangling of life’s challenges, me trying ungracefully to come to terms with the many questions I still have, at this point in my journey, about pretty much everything.

I’m not sure I get to call myself a poet, at least not without explanation. But sometimes, when I feel unsure of the world or my place in it, the words come to me differently. The poetry finds me. Here’s what it wants me to share, today.

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A feast of my toes

Creek water tripping
on childish feet,
crayfish beneath
the slime-covered rocks,
a feast
of my toes
imagined.

Confidence slipping
from nascent dreams,
clipping my wings
in moments of flight,
sad now
the birds aren’t
singing.

Misunderstanding
the call to be sure,
questions endure,
the burden of
aging
on will and
matter.

Watchful eyes
this side of the passage
for what can be salvaged
of wonder
and magic
to ease the ache
of truth.

Wisdom finds,
dismal or shining,
a way of surviving
this living
with doubts
unaffected
by time.

~Elizabeth

Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash