In Rewind

If we grew backward,
would we celebrate
wisdom? Would we dye

our hair to grey
when the blonds
started coming in?

Would glossed
magazines be graced
with the faces of sages

and the soft eyes
of the enlightened?
Would we feel nervous

as the numbers
kept ticking away,
unwinding the dial

of our hand-hewn
hearts? And would
our perceived

relevance fade as we
trembled on the edge
of young adulthood

and started making
bad decisions?
From teen to child

to baby we would grow.
I may be distracted,
our toddler self would say,

but I was old once, too.
And with trepidation,
we’d contemplate

that final passage
through some alleged
long, dark tunnel,

a disappearing light,
soothed only by the notion that
our Parents would carry on.

Learning How to Moonwalk on a Thursday

It is never too late
to learn how to
moonwalk on a
summer night
as limes dissolve
into the glimmer
of reposado
beneath a moving
canopy of yellow
monarchs. I hope
that we believe
there is always
more dancing
to be done
and at ninety
when you yell,
Slide flat! Then lift!
Then switch!
I will laugh
into my tilted lawn
chair because
after fifty years
of practice, I still
won’t be as good
as you, and it
won’t matter as
I clap while you
glide, slide, lift, switch,
glide, slide, lift, switch
across the grass,
the sequins
of my one white
glove glittering
in the moonlight.

Night River

River swollen with
the June side of spring
runs bulge to bank

even as I sleep,
broken brambles swept
sideways into white

water wearing
brown borrowed earth,
liquid siege

like swift time
toward a downstream
dream as the night rain

comes down
from a lightning sky, drop
by drop by deluge

to the sea, past
the rocks now smooth
with the rush of it,

no more resistance
to the flood of it
as everything softens

like stone and like
golden sunrise on the gift
of another morning.