The morning bus howls like an owl
asking the wrong questions.
The woman in front of me could be
my grandmother, that pale sand-slab
of taught bob cupping the head,
those dark teal-pastels of braid and leaf
on her blazer, snow-cone-fuzz of airbrush shading
straight out of the eighties,
but my grandmother is a woman I’ll never see
again, and a woman that stopped seeing the world
years ago. When I get to work, the speakers nestled
in the ceiling caw down that rude truth, sing,
You’ll always be exactly the same as you are now,
and I almost know it to be true
but it makes trying to change more fun,
in the same way that world peace wouldn’t be
achievable for those fighting for it.
Inside me is still this heart plowed down,
this wish to choose those I miss.
I am planting the winter bulbs deep.
I am bracing myself for the next freeze.
“morning root” is a poem I wrote in 2018. It was published in WINK: Writers in the Know, which you can purchase and read online.