At forty-three I have restless feet--
a mid-Life/Death yearning for new frontiers
It started at forty, really, after the fatal Fall fires, before
Spain, during Spain, after Spain,
our summer far from the maddening smog.
I´ve spent years drawing into these desert lines,
searching winter skylines, admiring Truffula palms
my Hoosier corn-fed soul still can´t comprehend.
Years growing friendships, screwing up, making molding
children with willing husband who I still desire, still
don´t understand.
"You´re always moving" exclaims a friend,
And it´s true we left before, 3000 miles we trekked to
North of Beantown, the crowded Northeastern corridor
of high strung blue bloods with Cape Cod homes, to
Absurd rents and raucous relatives, to the cold Atlantic and colder
shop owners, to gracious neighbors, and of course
abuela and tía Luz who made every second worth the slog,
even if the West stayed in our blood and called us back
with Santa Ana force.
It has all been worth the while-these eleven plus years
in the arid soil of Redlands- which is good because
we make our lives what they are, every day:
Ghandi said Where there is love there is life,
Emerson wrote Life is a progress and not a station,
Kate Wolf sang We´ve only got these times we´re living in3;
Here, with you, we celebrated the new-millennium, mourned 9-11.
So we move again, go West by driving East
to the Rockies, boulders, Flatirons, and Aspens with
Twelve year old Lucas-grounded, anxious,
hopeful, furious-comfortable this year in his changing skin
with a band full of friends, inspiring classrooms.
No one can sing who has smog in his throat,
the Lorax would try to explain; but friends trump
Environment for this twelve year old,
even one with cliff-dwelling soul.
Eight year old Marcos, always in motion, sad tooto leave friends,
but delighted because we´ve promised
sea horses, the first whirlpool bath.
A willful whippoorwill who loves our new street,
Nighthawk, and who still trusts parents and Lucas to soothe
his hurts, to laugh and rejoice with his musical life.
Milton (can I speak for him?) who I nudged along to satiate this
mid-Life/Death yearning. He, who makes it all possible,
and feels my nudge so much more than anyone.
So okay, he would laugh at nudge,
call it a shove, thrust, push toward the ancient East
to the Anglo West. He too has restless legs,
but so itchy they tingle to the bone?
My longing body-too old now for the Yale Younger Poets,
too young for the AARP-knowing, believing it´s time
to dig up the roots; this isn´t where we were meant to end up.
It´s more than the Environment (the Once-ler is everywhere;
I saw him in Boulder). It´s deeper than gut, this trust.
Still moving, inside I feel the hummingbird´s frenzied wings
suspend me these final days, keeping me up at night.
I´m in endless conversation with myself, and with you-
you who are what I cherish in this surreal, searing, handsome town,
and that I will miss with every ounce of my body3;
except these restive feet.
©Ann Morrill, Redlands, California, January 29th 2007