A Writer's Dream

 Napping on the porch

On a summer afternoon,

Sun warming my body,

The beginning of a story

Comes to mind.

I stir enough

To capture it

In shadow ink upon the wall.

Satisfied,

I return to slumber.

Awaking (still dreaming),

I smile to see my tale

Still there.

I begin to read the words.

Each collapses

Into nonsense

At the edges of my grasp.

I rouse

To the frustration

Of a writer’s dream.

The Perfect Body

Woke up this morning

feeling the flawless sculpture

of  my biceps and triceps

from yesterday's kayak

on the lake.

An illusion,

this ache of my muscles

a reminder

from my 20-something self

that she is still here

within my aging body.

Dressing,

I confront the mirror.

The 20-year old me looking out

through my eyes

at the 57-year old I have become.

The grey hair belies the stress

of a career chance selected,

or perhaps only my genetic disposition.

In the face, the remnant creases

left by my stories

of joy and sorrow.

The stomach bears scars

of childbirth.

A memento

of my most beloved creation.

And everywhere

the effect of gravity.

Not solely the downward pull

back into the earth,

but also

the solemn dignity of life.

My 20 and 50-something selves

unite and agree;

I have the perfect body.