Crossroads

　　by Joyce Sutphen

　　 The second half of my life will be black

　　 to the white rind of the old and fading moon.

　　 The second half of my life will be water

　　 over the cracked floor of these desert years.

　　 I will land on my feet this time，

　　 knowing at least two languages and who

　　 my friends are. I will dress for the

　　 occasion， and my hair shall be

　　 whatever color I please.

　　 Everyone will go on celebrating the old

　　 birthday， counting the years as usual，

　　 but I will count myself new from this

　　 inception， this imprint of my own desire.

　　 The second half of my life will be swift，

　　 past leaning fenceposts， a gravel shoulder，

　　 asphalt tickets， the beckon of open road.

　　 The second half of my life will be wide-eyed，

　　 fingers shifting through fine sands，

　　 arms loose at my sides， wandering feet.

　　 There will be new dreams every night，

　　 and the drapes will never be closed.

　　 I will toss my string of keys into a deep

　　 well and old letters into the grate.

　　 The second half of my life will be ice

　　 breaking up on the river， rain

　　 soaking the fields， a hand

　　 held out， a fire，

　　 and smoke going

　　 upward， always up.

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