Crossroads

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my fee this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occassion and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
 birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
 inception,this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides,wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
 well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire
and smoke going
upward, always up.

by Joyce Sutphen