Devon Balwit

Teaching, I see my face, a sheet someone forgot

to straighten after a morning of lovemaking, a backdrop

for my eyes, soul shining within web-roots

of wrinkles, secretly joyous at the chance to stop

decades of routine, at finding the will to reach

for water instead of wine, to sit and meditate,

to weed my yard and plant zucchini, to search

out grubs for my chickens, to repaint

my bedroom. Yes, I can see the crepe

of my sagging jawline, but I think of mono

no aware, explained in the sweet voice

that floated today from my meditation app—

an appreciation of impermanence, the ebb and flow

of life that I’ll know in this body but once.

Devon Balwit sets her hand to the plough and chases chickens in the Pacific Northwest. For more regarding her individual poems, collections & reviews, please visit her website.

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