May 23, 1999
There is nothing
To say
I am content.
Zelie
On her blue bike
Has gone off
To feed
The dogs.
The Writer’s Life
During those times
I possess the imagination to ignore
The chaos
I live
The writer’s life:
I lie in bed
Gazing out
The window.
To my right
I notice
My neighbor
Is always painting
And repainting
His house.
To my left
My other neighbor
Speaks of too much shade
Of tearing
Out
Our trees.
Sometimes
I paint
My house
Orange & apricot,
Butterscotch & plum—
Sometimes
I speak up
To save
The trees.
The days
I like best
Have
Meditation
Lovemaking
Eating scones
With my lover
In them.
Walks on the beach
Picnics in the
Hammock
That overlooks
The sea.
Hiking in the hills
Leaning on
Our
Walking sticks.
Writers perfect
The art
Of doing nothing
So beautifully.
We know
If there is
A butterfly
Anywhere
For miles
Around
It will come
Hover
& maybe
Land
On our head.
If there is a bird
Even flying aimless
In the next
County
It will not only
Appear
Where we are
But sing.
If there is
A story
It will
Cough
In the middle
Of our
Lazy
Day
Only once
Maybe more
& announce
Itself.
All the People Who Work for Me
All the people who work for me
& my dog too
Think
I’m crazy
Rushing to
& fro
Doing this
& that
Never really
Still
Until
I absolutely
Sit.
They think
These people
Who work for me
& my dog
Too
That I have
Lost
My mind.
I’m always sending them
On errands
I could do
Myself.
My dog sometimes
Fetching a ball
Looks at me
With such pity
In her brown eyes.
My cat
Enduring the madness
No longer
Bailed out;
Went to live
With an aunt.
I feel myself
Slowly
Coming awake
In the rush.
Seeing the gingko tree
When it waves
Responding to seduction
By tomato
Noticing
Jose’s moustache
& eyes
When I ask him
To fly
Down
The mountain
For an egg.
From Alice Walker’s forthcoming collection of poems, Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth, to be published by Random House in March.
