Maybe I Was Born Middle-Aged

My Son, My Mother. 2006.

I don’t like completely blue skies,
with searing sun and stark shadows
nor perfectly manicured lawns.

Too bright, too beautiful, too much.
Too contrary to my insides.

Give me the shadow of clouds,
an approaching storm,

flowers bent low in their bloom.

Give me a bed just slightly unmade…
loose and inviting.

Give me anything that speaks
to my traveling soul,
Something, anything,
that is warm, worn, and strong.