Three Poems by Ann Privateer

 

 

 

Pronoun

I am sorry
For what I have done
And what I failed to do.
Now let’s change
To pronoun we.
too deep?
Then we are not
on the same page
Are we lost in a desert
Of our own making
Confused to stay
Alone and inured
Forgotten and forsaken
Even though formerly joined?

Forbearance

stays, continues
to know and grow
weary or smarter
to change pocket lint
for cash, smudges
for clarity as we
dig into the well
of each other’s
tomorrow.

To the farthest reaches
of my property
stood an old redwood fence.
I was young when it was new,
set a vase of flowers there
next to the hors-d’oeuvre
for a garden party. The vase
somehow disappeared into the ivy.

Over time, other artifacts joined–
one zorry wildly flung from
running in backyard merriment,
many lime green tennis balls
fetched by the dog,
my son’s Texaco Fire Engine,
a mason jar for fire flies,
some electric wire spools
left by men working
on a transformer,
bits of barbed wire found on a hike.
Ivy grew, and grew weaving up
and over until…wind blew it all
down. When my children left home
the fence was a wall of green,
a protecting centaur.
A new fence replaced the old
and beneath the leaf mulch
I found the vase, the rusted truck,
and one hairless blackened tennis ball.

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