the Chinese fortune cookie
fortune said, meaning with all
my soul, with all my strength, with
all the fortitude I could
muster. Just that much courage.
I’ve always known this rhythm
my feet make, the left, right, left,
depending on the pavement
with Loose Strife on the shoulders
of the road, Robins dotting
the margins like emphatic
punctuation marks. Mourning
doves coo; cardinals provide
that vital splash of color.
Gravel, asphalt, clay, or dirt,
how to choose? When there’s always
that fifty-fifty chance for rain,
for rubble and construction,
for mud and its myriad
distractions in this green world
where Queen Anne’s lace will rise up
joyful, like red-winged blackbirds
clinging to their flimsy reeds.
My needs become flimsy, too.
I could be walking on eggshells,
without thinking, and the world
around me evolving thoughtless,
the way it was meant to be,
adhering wordlessly to the skin
of my arms and legs, my feet
thumping this taut, hallow ground.
About Deborah H. Doolittle
