Nocturne

It's not what it was once:
spike heels, short dresses,
slow gulps of chardonnay.
Dark underthings, smooth rock.
A delicious guy in my room,
making our own weather.

No more of what came after:
quick and absent-minded everything.

It lasted as long as it could.

Now it's flannel PJ's with The New Yorker.
Online Scrabble and MSNBC.
Pandora with hot tub and no thoughts.

Once I was a Pelican, pouch filled with fish.
Now just a woman with nice friends,
but oh, a grandson to hug, woods to walk in.
Now it's nocturnal poetry.

Still worthy of life, indeed--still worth
begging for;
though at times,
all may seem like gibberish.

Done asking

Land of forgiveness, freedom land,
if you exist,
show me in,
let me emigrate to your realm
of balm and peace.

Allow some ease after miles of
short steps over hot sand--take me
to your mount surcease from sorrow,

from regret,

from my sins.

I could have done more.
Each day I count the ways
I might have been better.

Today I count this:
Those afternoons I leave him in
his unawares, in the palms of others
to walk the dog, to roll in water
like a log, to pour sun on me.

Let me forgive myself,
amend my life across your border.
I accept your hand of charity.