All Text, Music, and Illustrations, including Paintings, Photographs, and 3D models, Copyright © 2022 by Jim Robbins.

Columbine above Rivulet before Creek Fire

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THE SECRET

The old woman, rolling away

on a stretcher, clawed the air,

leaving goo an inch deep

in her frying pan, a sink

and counter conquered

by crusty dishes, countless

bottles on the windowsills,

and the odor of cat deep

in the ratty carpet. I once

stared at the heart-shaped leaves

of a coleus, timeless,

my grandmother timeless too

as she washed dishes in a patch

of sunlight before my mother

returned. The dog and turtle

at home shared the secret

with the toad, the swallow,

the columbine, the tiny creek

in the neighborhood, before

I was called back and scolding

broke the spell. I was afraid

of the war like everyone, sure

that it would drag on

until my time came, and I forgot,

waking to the alarm clock

so that I could see my father home

from work before I got ready

for school. I believed then

that we had one chance

to forget the clock,

that we could conquer those

who fed us time--we could

because we knew we were

a family that included

the turtle and the dog, the reed

and the minnow, and we could see

the secret in each other's eyes,

gazing hard a long time

because we had to.