The edges of my form
Begin to blur…

My children 23, 19, 17, 16, 16 and 16 -
Venturing out, testing their waters.
Their individual framework beginning to
Come into focus –
Music, poetry, philosophy;
Relationships, careers, parenthood –
All present,
Their own sharp lines being drawn
Against life’s azure sky.

Holographic,
My image blinks;
Not too often but
I know more will come,
And it startles me;
Tending my grandmother'’s graceful shuffle
As she begins to blend
Into the woodwork -
I know it'’s coming.

I write, wielding sharpened pen
Against the smudged margins
Of 45 years and counting,
Precision’s disintegration pressing me
Toward tomorrow’'s clarity
And wherever that journey takes me.

I cannot allow my duties to define me,
Gilt edge dulling my cushioned preference.
Who am I?
And what is it I'’m supposed to accomplish?
The years slipping through my fingers
Moments I seem unable to grasp
In a life of hourglass’ sand.
I feel myself fading
Against Life'’s azure sky
And I wonder how long
Before I am absorbed entirely
By the backdrop of all that is
Not me.

11/25/2007

Author's Note: Thanks, Mary Frances, for the nudge to write this. I simply find that as my "roles" are changing, I seem to be preparing myself for an identity crisis of sorts. Luckily, I know myself well enough to comfort myself with the knowledge that I'll figure it out. Hehe.

Posted on 11/25/2007
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