which I hope are some time from now
they’ll say of me, how wise she is,
forbearing and kind, always ready to help
(within reason – I’m not one who jumps up
to do dishes at someone else’s party).
But spiritual help, you know. How apt
her advice, I hope they’ll say, never
too much, yet unafraid to speak out.
They’ll be able to tell by my tranquil face
I’ve learned well the truths of life.
But speaking of truth I must put this off
for a while and continue in school,
till I finally have learned how to keep
my temper, my mouth shut, my cool.

is memory, or doubt
something leftover
in the heart, regret

perhaps, or a thought
lingering like dust on
a half-erased blackboard

a reminder of sorrow
even for one
who hours earlier

had watched from an
east-facing window
as day stretched and woke

who as usual whispered
“rosy-fingered dawn”
just to please herself.

— from The Finding Day