Fretting about the small this morning — my husband's
trip to have his driver's license renewed, the welfare
of my son's two dogs, alone in the upstairs apartment —
I find myself wishing for a single day free of anxiety.
Nothing but realized disaster would make that possible.
Meanwhile, obsessive thoughts: will we both be alive
to celebrate this day next year?  I hedge my bets but
they can't be covered. Like the trash on Tonawanda
Street, they're orts, scraps, useless scrip of the mind.

Here, now, in our bedroom, orchids are opening,
greeny-white blooms etched with purple, white ones
striped violet, a “baby” orchid with a shred of blossom
hanging on. Yesterday was wild melange, November,
April, leaden clouds, white openings, tempestuous
sudden gales, as if weather of several seasons met and
battled, leaving winter today, pure, cold, triumphant.
A day like our wedding, epithalamion inscribed in ice.

My husband comes into the room now and refills
my cup. I want it but coffee's not what I need —
drink, drug, crutch. I need change, choice, need
what would allow changes, choices, the unfinished,
the imperfect real. I need a source, rush of renewal,
gift, radiating power I can't control or imagine.

© by Sandra Kohler.
Used with the author's permission.