A poem by Kristin Berger
We have not started too late.
Regret belongs in roadside ditches
to be overtaken by freeway poppies.
We have hours within hours for our blooms
to live their uncomplicated bright cycles.
There is no time to dwell on lost time.
I wear my father’s stopped wristwatch
with the fraying leather band to confuse myself
every time I think I’m in a hurry. 11:17
could be the lip of morning, sweet breath
after tea and honey, or that dark tug
of midnight coming to tuck you in.
Either way, its gold wands remind me
of arms permanently opened, just enough,
outstretched, about to envelop each other
like we are notes we wrote and forgot
in our pockets that survived washings
and dryings softened by years, timestamps
that can still be deciphered
like small, sturdy fortunes.
Hear Kristin read her poem:
Kristin Berger is the author of six poetry collections including Earthwork (The Poetry Box, 2022), Echolocation (Cirque Press, 2018), and is on the board of directors of Playa at Summer Lake. Kristin lives in the Portland, Oregon area and is the mother to two grown children. Learn more at kristinbergerpoet.com.
Photo:
Nathan Dumlao
Beautiful poem. The ending is so strong.
Quite poignant
So much beautiful imagery - “the lip of the morning…or that dark tug of midnight” -“Washings and dryings softened by years…” Reminds me to slow down, savour the moments. Thank you.