our own space
it is difficult
to find my own space
with care workers
buzzing around me
like I was the queen bee
solitude
comes at a price
the house is dusty
the dishes undone
the bed unmade
hollyhocks grow tall
staked with wooden posts
ride the wind
reaching to the sun
bees caress the blooms
I am still
in the wildest storms
unmoved
by the highest waves
only my hopes climb
days play out
marching to drums
not my own
searching for dream time
between the drumbeats
Bill Albert/Joy McCall
published in Atlas Poetica 30
