By Mark Strand
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.
Why do I never see anyone my age at the gyno’s? The waiting room always seems full of young women reading magazines I’ve long passed the demographic for, or pregnant ones easing their swollen bodies into chairs too small to hold them. Makes me feel dried up. This poem is for the women I don’t see at the gyno’s, the ones who feel invisible, the ones who think they’re past their prime, the ones whose ovaries are shriveling.
I posted this poem, my first one, in late March on a bitterly cold but sunny day. It seemed appropriate for a new adventure in mid-life. When I returned the next day, I laughed when I saw the poem still taped to the yellow post. I can’t explain why it made me so happy. But it did and it still does.