Becalmed

Judith Skillman

The cherry in flower,

the children gone,

the lust for lust

grown into a different creature,

one who sits in a patch of sun.

The sky-ships

welded together like clouds,

nibbled at the edge

by portraiture’s downy curls

and the blue gaze of youth.

The willow gestures, hemmed

by the same kite strings

that bind a woman to the hours.

Her figure changed by what

she cannot help.

That pear rusting

on the sill, this apple pressed

against another apple

in the crystal bowl.

Whatever wind possessed

it released to wander

over these lands changed

from exotic to familiar,

by a sleight of hand

turning courtyard to yard,

the fountain at the center

of the square holding nymphs

and cherubs above water

as if both were innocent.

The cherry squanders its beauty

in slow bursts, ousts its scent

like a provocateur—

coyness overflowing the bowl

where child and woman

lived for years under the same roof.