Photo by Bonnie Sue Pinkerton
I wake this June morning to storm warnings,
white caps on the mountains, dogs curled warm
against my knees. Even with the dogs, this bed
is too wide, too cold. The sky darkens and snow
falls into the valley. I comfort myselfwith cappuccino. Tomorrow is your birthday.
I braid this long hair, which I will cut off soon,
and tie it up with fake pearls. I put on rings,
a silver bracelet, a long-sleeved high-neck
sweater. I wish for blue sky, for a blondstreak of sun to melt this snow. I wish
for summer flowers, for years and seasons
to fall away, for limber, painless youth. My hair
will grow back grey. The garden will bloom,
soon. Storms will come, storms will go.
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