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A cool grey morning after the school bus pulls away and

 I am sitting on the cold damp rocking chair on the porch,

Sipping lukewarm tea.

Watching the crows yell information at each other;

They keep a beady eye on me as they eat our breakfast crusts.

The blanket on the chair was precious, a striped throw with burnt orange stripes;

But what once was Mom’s favorite blanket is now becoming just a blanket.

The racoons have left some discarded food on it.                    

Without a desire to move, I note the birdfeeder dumped on the ground

By the night creatures with little hands.

A whirring little hummingbird approaches the porch for one last meal before heading south;

I am quiet and motionless, attempting invisibility.

My hands are spotted and freckled, varnished by the elements.

As we age our skin thins, leaving our skeleton and circulation system exposed.

I am quietening sharp menstrual cramps from a diminishing cycle,

 bright red blood is soaking my rags, like an alarm.

I am no longer a young woman, harassed and exhausted, stalked by life.

No more babies, no more milk in my breasts, no more life in my womb.

I am the slow moving spider, making one more web.

I am the big bumbling bee on her way to Nirvana, pollen weighing down her flight.

One bee has fallen asleep in a flower, her bum exposed,

but she no longer cares. Her little spirit is summer and honey.

A fat spider pulls her beautiful body into herself when I speak to her,

tucking herself in tight against the outside world.

Her web is broken and decorated with leaves and dead bodies.

She has crept into a quiet corner and is slowly becoming something else.

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