Last night, just before dusk, I walked around gathering the croquet mallets and put them in the barn, before the predicted rain today. My daughter came out to fold towels thrown over the railings, and we listened to geese fly overhead.
That morning, I woke remembering the fall she was a year-and-a-half, and I was frantically mailing maple syrup — as if mail-ordering maple would be a cash cow, although a very small one.
To that younger mother of myself, I think, Slow down. Decades of evenings lie ahead.
I finally take my own advice to myself. I don’t weed a patch of the garden where I’d been heading. I listen to my daughter, and then she heads out into the gloaming, on a solitary walk.
…Rich fresh wineof June, we stagger into you smearedwith pollen, overcome as the turtlelaying her eggs in roadside sand.
From Marge Piercy’s “More Than Enough”