Patricia Fargnoli
We old women are close to wool sweaters.
When someone tries to tell us
what passes these days for the truth
we argue with them and refuse to believe.
Instead, we look to the stars for faith and confusion.
Where both are ample.
I hold the door open
and look down the snowbound road.
See how the stranger appears on it,
gradually and from a great distance.
If he comes close enough,
I will allow him to enter, or perhaps not,
given the certainty of loss.
Once there was a man full of appreciation
for his own mind.
I tried to enter him and failed
His suitcases bumped together as he left.
Sometimes I wonder how I came to this place.
Life, like a smoke ring, lifts
into the old air
where I can’t put my finger on it.
But something indefinable and fragile remains
of the orchard, the way it was at the peak of harvest—
sweet and humming.
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From Duties of the Spirit by Patricia Fargnoli, published by Tupelo Press. Copyright 2005 by Patricia Fargnoli.
