Women Authors

Epiphany Here I am, with one hour to find it.Here I am in this tenth month, the peeler of pears,the slicer of hotdogs, cutting them into stripssmaller than a child's windpipe. Here's my apologetic smile, accepted by the daycare,in return for my children. So what is there to findin one hour on my desk's shallow surface?I've mislaid all of it somewhere amongmy mind's tiny grey flags, in the millions of scrapspiling up. I left it behind in the dark bleeding gumsof the dog that I loved, watching her clench yet another rockfrom the tide. That was twelve years ago.What was she looking for?What if she'd stopped looking?Metaphors were easy then, not only the sky,but migrating everywhere. And now everyone is arrowarrow, arrows. Everyone harpoons.And I am the big heart, aren't I?When my black dog was being put down, in her lastsecond I whispered, Squirrel. The News I placed the telephone in the cradleand did not stop walking until I was lyingunder a cave of trees in a stranger's yard. I lay there like a wide lake.I didn't have the deep thoughts of a lake. Instead, I had the modest thoughtsof a mother:I am the lake if you want me to be the lake.I can also be the kept lawn or this cedar shrub. Even the roses, which I dislike. Or dislikedbefore I became them.