Ahz mah (So what)

The Fruitless Pear Tree in New England, Mid-November I don’t know how to write a poem, but I do know something about red. I am a master of red, an aficionado of red, an exuberant maven of red: blood orange, claret, burnt sienna, rust, all with a bit of a green undertone if you look closely. You were looking closely yesterday, probably wondering how I do it, how I stand so dignified even though I’m shivering in the wind, even though it’s getting late, even though everyone around me is giving up and letting go. But I’m not letting go; I won’t. You stoop to pick up a single vermilion leaf at my feet, and look up at me, desiring more. But my answer is No, why should I? I know what comes of letting go. The browns, the greys, the taste of death.

I stopped blogging a few months ago because I started writing poetry instead, something totally new for me. I am loving the way a whole other part of the mind seems to light up within this form of writing. This first poem seems like a fitting way to begin sharing. It was in response to a prompt to write an extended simile in which only the title gives the narrative context. Taking a Poetry Writing Class for the First Time at 62 She’s trying, like the skinny girl playing trombone in the high school marching band. Really she’s a flute player, second chair, decent enough; but honestly, who hears the flutes in a marching band? Cheeks flushed, arms weary from holding the brace in one hand and the slide in the other, she struggles to keep pace with the quick-stepping bass drums and trumpets and saxophones. But finally, gloriously, she can hear herself, and who cares if she’s off key? One Saturday afternoon, while the punctilious band director is distracted by the pretty majorette’s mother, t...