Two Poems

Turning Thirty

No alarm wakes me. I sleep in late.
I am late
for the lark’s urgent whistle,
the paper’s
skittery print. Another day
in the heat.
I pull berries from long stalks,
eat in the field,
walk to the lake in cut-off shorts,
unminded. No man
watches from the street. I feel full
in my body,
as I did as a girl, my hair dripping,
my legs unshaved,
no makeup veiling my face.
All day I swim
in the deep end, moving through
pools of light,
a dragonfly clipping the surface,
...