Slatted blinds, oak, broken, dog chewed,
replaced last year with European lace. “Old lady
curtains,” my daughter said. But I love them.
The house is our heartbeat, our job
like vagabonds given blossoms
to bathe in, dust and roses, prim roses.
We tend plumbing drips,
drying paint on window sills, fruit trees
we planted over the years: apricots and figs,
dates, apples. peaches. The sweet survival.
Why do I always need an escape plan?
My body leans like coastal trees
toward wind-blistered solitude,
a depiction of nature’s dominance.
Why return to the sea? I love people here,
the desert, my friends, family, the trailer
that sits for free in our driveway.
I never meant to get old, to run out of juice
for energetic gardening, for sharing.
But I can see it coming
sure as the tides are rising.