THERE WAS ONLY ONE YEAR
when I was six and there will only be
one year in which to be six-with-a-zero.
How full that egg shape!
Not empty but spacious,
holding all that has been
and what is yet to be in this lifetime.
Driving home from the airport
I delight in the many ways
the year’s oval could be filled,
choices and desires mine alone.
From six-O, I direct my chariot
and look back on the girl in pinafore
who bridled her wishes to fit the rules,
raged like a mustang to kick her paddock down.
Supremely calm on this first day
of six-with-a-zero, I surrender to
what comes up in my globe-o,
my mother’s touch light on my shoulders,
grandmother’s strength in my heart.
Relaxed, (so unaccustomed),
hands on the steering wheel,
even without a map, confident,
cruising at my own speed.