Poetry at Forty

[pegkerr]

I found this poem in a stack of old papers as I'm trying to extricate the contents of my old office and put it in storage so that it can become Fiona's bedroom. I wrote it, apparently, ten years ago. My efforts to dabble with poetry have been very few, sporadic, and certainly not very good.

How may I begin writing poetry at forty?

At forty you expect competence
rough edges smoothed
not clumsiness or false starts
You know how to make a risotto
spot clean the carpet
change the oil
but poetry--

The maiden, ah now the budding maiden
may catch the jagged words
and learn to fit them together
so that they mesh, flex and move in sinuous pattern
and if their crystalline shapes cut her fingers
her skin is young enough to heal

The crone's withered hands move
sure, confident with long practice
slipping thought into intricate rhymes that surge,
storm with echoing ancient power

But the mother who has never written poetry hesitates
poised over the page
until the awakening baby's cry
shatters the iridescent wisp of airy nothingness
uncaught
and now ever unsung