Query                                                                                                                   —Joan Gibb Engel

Before we leave this topic
may I ask:
do you,
like a green leaf
in an orchard
where peaches exhale
their sweet perfume,
through all tomorrows
a granddaughter's look
clear dewdrop
that flickers
over smooth cheek-hills

And will you then
pity—no, not pity—
I mean to say
"erase" erase
the sodden prints
of a man's gray
and thinning hair
over a table, arms
stretched, thumbs
an exercise said to slow
the aging
that you in cryptic deep

Joan Gibb Engel

Joan Gibb Engel has had years (but not enough) to sample various careers and habitats. She has segregated fruit flies, fashioned teapots, led walks through the Indiana Dunes, been parent, teacher, editor, essayist, and poet. A constant, shared with her life’s partner, is a love of Earth and concern for its future. She recently moved to Tucson and lives near her daughter, granddaughter, and the University of Arizona’s Poetry Center, triple blessings.

ISSN 2472-338X
© 2016