By Amy Christman
PROMPT — Who am I today?
Today I am content to sit in the late summer heat, the big Maples stretching their shade across the August lawn, mottled, parched, barely growing, and I feel that lethargy in the soles of my bare feet, barely a tickle of motivation.
Today I am unmoving, unmoved.
There is a breeze, blue sky, clouds, swift and determined, looking like they have someplace to be, and I am suddenly jealous of their freedom. Today I am tired of being rooted to this corner of my life, this waiting and uncertainty teases like the full-bodied begonias, studded with tiny buds that swelled and withered all Summer, but never bloomed, their jeweled centers hinted at secrets and sublimated joy.
Today I am feeling cheated, and restless.
A dimpled copper can that once
held cookies, a gift from a friend,
now newly planted, sits on the deck’s
lower stair, spilled dirt, a puddle
of water, the memory of silky roots
in my hands, the lingering scent
of darkness on my skin. Dusty
green leaves on deep purple
stalks, these slips rescued from
a sweet potato left too long
in the humidity of the kitchen
a way to make more from the
too little we’ve endured.
Today I am feeling virtuous,
in possession of a promise
whose progression I can measure,
the way each day is measured, not
by what we have accomplished,
but simply by what we have held,
and witnessed, and loved.
Amy Christman is a poet and retired Librarian living in Tonawanda, NY. Her poetry has been published in a number of newspapers, small press magazines, and appears in the book Scribing the Soul: Essays in Journal Therapy by Kathleen Adams.