After Swim Season
By Paula Friedman
Because really what does it come to, sitting here in an old black skirt
and a fleece pulled over my tee-shirt, hair still damp,
here on the grass in the wind’s cool, black birds
of some sort crossing not very high
the sky over the library, once more again,
more years than, than,
than are left, you must know,
silly self; listen.
Hear the wind blow? Here we are
together, one since just about
forever, I remember. What was it
I was supposed to become? Oh yes,
discoverer, teacher, of the Truth
of mathematics, of foundations, of philosophy and
so on—later, singer of the
truths of love peace depths; so
here you are, me,
nice good swim today,
last of the season (of your
life, you never know
at your age); and you’re writing
Big poem hey, big big deal. I thought
you wanted High Sierras, Truckee, anyhow, those
grandest mountains, granite rockbound lakes, so on.
Yeah. Right. Well here,
the water’s sweet yes, and the stars above
your yard—hey, acreage—clear as diamonds glitter
in this night approaching.
Yes, and for this moment
air breathes beauty in our falling breeze
now flowing east as in the distance
shifts the river seaward, out beyond
the brick and friendly storefronts, pristine photographic
gleams and coffee-drinkers passing through
this wanderer’s streets.
Paula Friedman is an award-winning published author, professional editor, and exhibiting photographer who lives near Parkdale in the Upper Hood River Valley of Oregon. She teaches writing through Hood River Adult Education. See her fiction, poetry and photography on her website: www.highlightscommunications.com.