Michael Steffen
THE OLDER I GET
The elderly woman I watched tending
a far-off grave in the cemetery
turned out to be a white hydrangea
genuflecting in a cold breeze.
Are those butterflies blinking on and off
in the window’s vivid sky,
or is it a blue field of kites
and their papery-quick evasions,
jittery as the comings and goings of my body—
departure of sight, arrival of doubt,
my addled brain’s mixed messaging—
my body becoming winter and ice,
turning toothless, drooling in my farina,
rarely straying from home
and yelling at things that can’t yell back—
the suddenly mute blower, garbled leaves
swirling in the driveway—
my raspy voice grumping around the yard.
I spy with my cloudy eyes
a floral nightdress drying on the line
or a trellis of roses? The world is becoming
my best guess—a red thread on my white shirt
or a thin ribbon of blood?
Either way, it’s a tightening strand.