One morning — late ‘88, early ‘89 — I awoke with the start of a poem running through my head: I saw the beauty at my door — an elf . . . and water, clogged no more. “How neat,” I thought, coming to, “Maybe I should finish it.” A few scratchings later, I had the completed version.
I saw the beauty at my door—
an elf . . . and water, clogged no more.
And then, with bouts of girlish glee,
I ran to throw my arms ‘round me;
and, inching, did explore of me
the wonder of the more of me.
A universe (so far denied)
was opening to the eye inside.
Then, along my way through the years, I’d occasionally contact that poem. It always left me feeling: “Yeh . . . it’s nice enough; but . . .” It just didn’t ring true. It was some idealized version of what I thought things were supposed to be, the way I thought they would be if only I could get it ‘right’ . . . whatever ‘right’ means. So one day, I decided to rewrite it (or ‘re-right’ it, as the case may be) to tell the truth this time — to paint the view from this side of the bridge, having crossed it. Now it reads:
I saw the beauty at my door –
an elf . . . and water clogged no more.
And then—in forty’s fantasy:
I’d run to throw my arms ‘round me;
and, inching, I’d explore of me
the wonder of the more of me.
A universe (so far denied)
would open to the eye inside.
But years have passed,
And truth be told:
The warm embrace could oft be cold.
My feet were glass, or maybe clay.
My-opic eye would weep each day.
Whether growing up or growing old,
life’s a bitch,
if truth be told.
And when you do both, one-on-one,
the two can leave you all undone.
But yet there is one saving grace:
I recognize my inner face
and know that, after all, I see
just who is and isn’t me.
