My work now is astonishment.
Here the breeze—an impulsive playful puppy.
There a lark—perches on budding maple
head thrown back, breast a quiver,
sings straight at the sun,
Do I walk at a slower pace?
Is my mind unable to process a riddle?
I am no longer a young woman,
must keep to my work,
which is mostly choosing stillness.
To be roomy enough to listen
for newness every second
to look for miracles—
Budding woods, blooming gardens
Trees curtseying in the wind
Flock of pigeons glitter like confetti
Love falling from lovers’ eyes, and his eyes.
Which is mostly choosing to invite my longings—
the mind chatter, the infectious desires
to sit on the porch with me
as valley breaks open at sunset like a rose
astounded at the silent spaces in between.
Marianne Lyon taught music for 43 years. After teaching in Hong Kong, she returned to the Napa Valley and is published in The Ravens Perch, TWJM Magazine, and Earth Daughters, among others. Nominated for the Pushcart prize in 2017, she is a member of the California Writers Club, and Adjunct Professor at Touro University.
