I write to you from within a constrained world.
Caring for my elderly, injured mother,
thinking only of the next task,
I make phone calls
and listen for her stirring in the night.
What do I have to do with the world
of presidents and wars?
I dimly recall the Strait of Hormuz
as I fill my gas tank and worry
about Medicare coverage.
There was a spot on Stumphole Bridge Road
where long ago (last week?)
the world opened up.
Wide farmland stretching up to misted hills,
folding and folding and folding into the horizon.
I am the cosmos unfolding
along purposeful, hidden paths.
It is my small, bright secret.
Like the woman and her coin,
I sometimes lose track of it.
I’ve swept the floor and lit a lamp.
I’ve just caught a glimmer
in the corner of my eye.