Belinda Diepenheim

Calendula

On winter days
orange and yellow calendulas
open to their season,
lapping the pavement edge,
while the same cold air
dries the backs of my hands
to maps.

Under the skin of
each hand
the sinews stretch to V’s,
like the wing bones of
seabirds in museums
that once offered
the prospect
of escape from
the edge of a dirty beach,
where waves miles out
softened to foam.

I test the slight wind
for updrafts
holding my hand
out under the
heatless sun, beside
the dazzle of flowers.

Eternity is in my bones,
porous as cork oak bark,
above the lit gold of the
calendulas.