[from Lynne Thompson's Beg No Pardon, Perugia Press, 2007]
A Sorceress Strolls New Grass
I am neither mother nor turquoise neckwear
but you are such young women,
such new potatoes, and there is much
for me to tell you:
that bishops joyride in the dead of night,
that blue's favorite color is blue
and earth is just a gaudy paragraph.
And though I am ripe as November, I can tell you
no sorceress ever abandons midday
and a sculptor is always better
in a waterbed.
Of course, I'm vainglorious with my knowing and croaking --
but you women are writing your own Book of Migration
and without warning, I feel useless as an empty valise.
What you know makes the bandicoot fly and you converse
in flamingo and seashell, smell like smoke and rapscallions.
You are tambourines
in the stewing pot,
a crucible of cymbals.
Being fresh as new grass, you
inspire me to astonish, then gloat;
to beg no pardon, then begin.