A cool grey morning after the school bus pulls away and
I am sitting on the cold damp rocking chair on the porch,
Sipping lukewarm tea.
Watching the crows yell information at each other;
They keep a beady eye on me as they eat our breakfast crusts.
The blanket on the chair was precious, a striped throw with burnt orange stripes;
But what once was Mom’s favorite blanket is now becoming just a blanket.
The racoons have left some discarded food on it.
Without a desire to move, I note the birdfeeder dumped on the ground
By the night creatures with little hands.
A whirring little hummingbird approaches the porch for one last meal before heading south;
I am quiet and motionless, attempting invisibility.
My hands are spotted and freckled, varnished by the elements.
As we age our skin thins, leaving our skeleton and circulation system exposed.
I am quietening sharp menstrual cramps from a diminishing cycle,
bright red blood is soaking my rags, like an alarm.
I am no longer a young woman, harassed and exhausted, stalked by life.
No more babies, no more milk in my breasts, no more life in my womb.
I am the slow moving spider, making one more web.
I am the big bumbling bee on her way to Nirvana, pollen weighing down her flight.
One bee has fallen asleep in a flower, her bum exposed,
but she no longer cares. Her little spirit is summer and honey.
A fat spider pulls her beautiful body into herself when I speak to her,
tucking herself in tight against the outside world.
Her web is broken and decorated with leaves and dead bodies.
She has crept into a quiet corner and is slowly becoming something else.