Unexpected Grace | Love Poem with Accolades

Unexpected Grace

The flash of tail lights ahead, our line of vehicles slows.
Soon we grind to a halt, mobile mess to parking lot.
Lights flash as an ambulance creeps down the shoulder.
I crane my head, see nothing, so far back in the pack my view
is a wall of cars and trucks. Time ticks, the radio plays rock
and I sit and wait. After 20 minutes I shut the car off.
Another 10 and I roll down the window, early morning sun
heating glass and leather. One by one vehicles around me
ping from idle to stop. We’re here for the long haul.
Off the shoulder, a barbed-wire fence, beyond that a copse
of trees and man-made pond. Cows graze a gentle slope.
Overhead, a hawk soars and spirals the currents. Folding wings,
it stoops and dives into the pasture. Minutes pass as I watch,
rapt. The bird struggles aloft, carrying dangling prey,
flapping for home and hungry mouths to stuff full. Air wafts—
exhaust and dirt, the tang of faded rain. Black cows amble
in a long line to the pond to drink and I catch a two-tone low
from a straggler as a meadowlark bursts into song.
It’s pleasant to sit, ignore being late to work,
ignore anything but the scene in my passenger
window, framed in blue, how it plays out whether
I’m stopped or driving, never asking for my attention,
not noticing the calm thrum of my contentment.

Love Poem with Accolades

It’s hell growing old. You age out of flattery.
No one tells you you’re pretty anymore.
The athletes you watch play ball could be your grandchildren.
Somehow, young waitresses now call you honey,
and dear, and sweetie, and point you to the senior special.
In my head I’m twenty-five, no more than thirty-two.
My body has a different perception, but it strives to do all I ask.
And then there is us. We’ve been together far too long.
You don’t say hey beautiful anymore, nor do you notice the
increasing silver strands in my dark hair.
Yesterday you bought me a new lamp with LED bulbs
bright enough to knit black yarn by.
Maybe you saw me struggle to count my stitches. Maybe you hate
the heavy cheater glasses I need to wear. Either way, it’s beautiful,
what you did, and I have to remember to tell you so.
Each day together is a compliment.

About Constance Brewer

Constance Brewer’s poetry has appeared in Crafty Poet II: A Portable Workshop, Harpur Palate, Rappahannock Review, The Nassau Review, among other places. She is the editor for Gyroscope Review poetry magazine and the author of Piccola Poesie: A Nibble of Short Form Poetry. She is a big fan of Welsh Corgis, weekends, and whiteline woodcuts. Find out more at www.constancebrewer.com

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