Bill Albert 1942-2020

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our own space

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it is difficult

to find my own space

with care workers

buzzing around me

like I was the queen bee

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solitude

comes at a price

the house is dusty

the dishes undone

the bed unmade

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hollyhocks grow tall 

staked with wooden posts

ride the wind

reaching to the sun

bees caress the blooms

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I am still

in the wildest storms

unmoved

by the highest waves

only my hopes climb

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days play out

marching to drums

not my own

searching for dream time

between the drumbeats

 

 

Bill Albert/Joy McCall

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published in Atlas Poetica 30

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