I. won’t. wither.
When my husband turned 70
They gave him a cane carved
with the body
of the red-winged sparrow.
I was left
with dried lily petals
melting into my tongue
as I peeled
hardened skins of summer
grapes beneath my fingernails.
When my husband turned 75
He brought a dancing girl home.
Her name sounded like
"Red-tipped carnation of the West Wind"
She plucked the seeds out of
spring strawberries
with slender twin fingers.
When my husband turned 80
He filled my bowels with
cheap white wine
and forced me to sleep with
alley-way cats.
I shared a feast
of rotting salmon and fishbone
with the blind black
tiger.
When my husband died
Our son carried me upon his back
to the Forest of One Thousand Whispers
He set me beneath the eldest oak
Kissed my spotted cheek and
bade me a tearless farewell.
Still,
My legs entwine
with the roots of the
great Oak, my fingers take the flight
of ten thousand cerulean
swallows
My lips form the
babbling brook of the east meadow
as my eyes turn to
seaglass
beneath unturned stones.
I. won't. wither.