The Past
“Fear not for the future,
weep not for the past.”
~Percy Bysshe Shelley
Is it water,
a slow wearing away
of a hardened stone?
Is it fire,
burning down the trees—
to perfected ash?
Is it wind,
blowing away the dead,
a valley swept clean?
Is it earth,
a solid house for roots
until one blooms again?
The Way of November
cold rain blows sideways,
breaching
camel-humped umbrellas,
stinging faces
now furrowed with autumn
regrets;
the last desperate leaves
are dismissed
with a cursory nod
from the cruel North wind,
and clocks, turned backwards,
kill the sun at 5 p.m.
Reversal of Roles
To see a shrunken man
curved into a chair
sears my heart
with a grownup brand
I’m not prepared to bear;
this man, my dad,
once a bulldozer,
pushing earth and sky
in that willful way of his,
now uses a shoehorn
to coax his heels
inside his walking shoes;
I bite my tongue
to keep from stepping
on his remaining pride
and pretend I’m OK
as I watch him walk outside
and climb (stiffly) into his car
and drive himself to the store.
I know he must keep up
appearances, and he will say,
I’m fine
until the angels seal his lips.
Patterns
she will cover up the bruises
like she covers the gray
like she covers flowers
before a frost;
she will smile behind glasses
for better or worse
for the scales of justice
to remain blind;
she will keep going back
because of love
because of misspent days
of her youth.
To read more poems by Arvilla Fee, click here
About the Author
Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the poetry editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, and her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other.
