Sweet Blisters
Aging Female Poet Attends Writing Retreat
After Margaret Atwood’s Aging Female Poet Sits on the Balcony
The late autumn trees lose their last leaves fast
to the strong gusts of wind this first writing day.
They fly like little yellow birds from the branches
off the mountain to another land for forgotten things.
The aging female poet gazes out the window at the
landscape and writes her last poems, perhaps, as
light blue hills hold the distance down, and the sun sets.
While her blood flows quick she will sing of
trees and birds, and as she ages what will she dream of?
When her sight fades with the afternoon light
will she write from memory or fear?
Crisp apples will trigger her best poems,
and she will hear what she can
of the gales and the spirits of the night.
Her childhood haunts will flicker past, and the deep
scent of pine trees will linger.
This poem was first published in Sinister Wisdom 117.