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A Window Seat
I have learned not to reach out
always. So many things are that way;
one must wait for cats, and birds,
and berries.
My coffee is long cold, but
I am watching your granddaughter.
She sidles up like a crab,
she uses her eye like a fish,
a horse,
a sideways thing .
Her fist pearled in my palm,
she curls like a ribbon in my lap,
and sleeps.
Such blessings change me--
I am a still and shadowed
garden, where wild
berries are inclined to grow.
Long Tall Drink of Water
(for my daughter)
My mother called me a
long tall drink of water--
and I understand,
when you lie on my bed after a bath
with your wet hair like brown branches
forking up above your face,
your magnolia feet hanging
off the bottom of the mattress,
and your eyes level with mine on the pillow,
blue and blue endlessly.
This is the bridge you build between
my mother and I without trying;
This is the route she didn’t find.
I say it to you--
carry it and I will find you
somewhere later, remembering.
Mark my words, mark this road;
I will come this way,
and a hundred others.
Kristin Roedell is a retired lawyer living in Lakewood
Washington. She is a wife and mother of two daughters. She is a
relatively new poet; her poems were recently published in Breath
and Shadow magazine and Metromania magazine, and her poetry will
be appearing in the next issue of “Switched on Gutenberg”. She
now studies poetry as a private student with Jana Harris of the
University of Washington. Her poetry arises out of the magic in
the mundane, and often deals with mental health issues. |
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