Labor Day, 39
In which I am not 35 nor 38, but I am 39 & trying [to rhyme] this particular Labor Day weekend.
“Personal aim:
Mystic. This
Lifetime or next.Auto-criticism:
At peace with being
Work-in-progress.Solo amusement:
Laughs aloud
At her own jokes.”— Sandra Cisneros, “Woman Seeks Her Own Company”
“I don't need no
midnight promise
I don't need no
wedding ring
Just don't ask me
how I got here
Don't ask me
anything”— Leonard Cohen
Here we go again!
It’s Labor Day weekend, and I am alive.
I’m no longer 35, I breezed by 38,
Now I am 39 & learning how to thrive.
Before you ask: No I am not aging like a fine wine.
I am wheeling around the produce aisle at the local store
Thinking how instead I’d look to be the dandelion
wine your favorite aunt made all those years before.
I put kombucha in my cart
& consider how hard it is to rhyme
in a poem, a delicate art
that’s worth a try from time to time.
Leonard still sings “hallelujah” & I recall the cherry wine
from the last days of the tree in the backyard.
Deborah & Mom picked the cherries, I think, it’s fine
You don’t have to make everything so hard.
After all,
it’s Labor Day weekend,
and we are alive.