I Write 2

On the eve of my 94th birthday I wrote this poem, which on reflection, has the sing-song rhyming qualities of a child’s work. And at first, I wonder: am I regressing? am I in my so-called second childhood?

Then I realize again something I’ve always known; that I embody at any and every given moment all the ages I’ve ever been. And that a younger age can pop out any time, and often does.

Without any judgment or moral value, but simply as observation, we can see this in many instances. For example, for me, falling madly hopelessly in love, at whatever calendar age I am, is always the 13-year-old. When I feel helpless and fearful in the face of challenges, it is always the infant. Having selfless compassion, like rushing toward danger to protect another, this is always the wise and mature adult.

So today my third-grade self, writing her first poems and delighting when her teacher liked them, has emerged to announce to the world how and when she writes.

I write in reds

I write in blues

I write in many

Other hues.

I write for me

I write for you

I write for no one

And everyone too.

I write for the dog

I write for the cat

I write for the elephant

And even the rat.

I write in the day

I write in the night

I write in the dawn

And the falling twilight.

I write when I’m smiling

I write as I cry

I write when I don’t know

And when I know why.

I write when I’m happy

I write when I’m sad

I write when I’m winning

And when I’ve been had.

I write when I’m still

I write on the run

I’m writing in circles

And now I am done.

© Vilma Ginzberg, 1-08-2021