Small, green grasshopper,
why did you come inside yesterday?
I picked you up and put you out
only to have you greet me
from the door frame again today.
Clearly you have something
important to convey.
What that is, I cannot say.
What I can say is this:
“Namaste, small, green grasshopper, namaste.”
Undecided morning sky
signals with its tinge of pink:
maybe rain, maybe not.
Periodically I check the sky
hoping it will clarify.
Newly fallen golden leaves join
leaves of years past, now stiff and brown.
There was a time when they were fresh and green,
their place made possible
by other golden leaves that, in time,
released their hold and found a new place
in the ever-changing order of things.
She gently leads us
through the minefield of her mind,
helps us understand.
How many leaves can one dog
sniff on this slowest
of slow-moving walks?
On how many trees
can he leave his mark before
he’s left enough?
The answer, my friend,
is blowing in the wind
which is moving faster than us.
After so many years of teenage dismissal,
imagine my surprise
when I got her call seeking my advice.
Imagine her surprise
when, before launching in,
I asked for her opinion.
Two women, two generations apart,
by each other.