This year is different

This year is different from all other years.
The flowers I sew together
seem ready to slip suddenly
into a deep green pool
the palm of my hand.
Sidewalk cracks widen when I approach
like opening eyes.
Trees take their breasts from their clothes
like mothers.
The gutters care with their endless arms.
I can love the feet of the mountains
across town
and the long-legged balconies,
the purring attics,
the corn-meal boxes in the yard.
A bright edge leaps up before me as I walk
running beside me like the moon in summer
widening like a railroad track
taking direction from my breasts.

Riverside, ‘69