Lessons
by Hilary King
When will I learn to measure success
by the wisteria’s purple currency spreading
over the pergola?
That an hour is not a tightrope but a shore,
swallowed whole by one tide, left by another
as a shell-filled altar.
Even the kitten, hungry, muddy, foundling turned
gassy old cat, could be considered an accomplishment.
Too long I read the wrong books, followed a false trail.
In the busy night sky I saw not mystery and glory,
but an orbit for the satellite of my ambition.
Each night the tulips close tight their petals. Come morning,
they open their pink-and-yellow libraries all over again.
by the wisteria’s purple currency spreading
over the pergola?
That an hour is not a tightrope but a shore,
swallowed whole by one tide, left by another
as a shell-filled altar.
Even the kitten, hungry, muddy, foundling turned
gassy old cat, could be considered an accomplishment.
Too long I read the wrong books, followed a false trail.
In the busy night sky I saw not mystery and glory,
but an orbit for the satellite of my ambition.
Each night the tulips close tight their petals. Come morning,
they open their pink-and-yellow libraries all over again.
Hilary King’s poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Salamander, TAB, DMQ Review, and other publications. Originally from the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, she now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is a poetry editor for DMQ Review, and an MFA Creative Writing student at San Jose State University. Her book of poems, Stitched on Me, will be published in October 2024 by Riot in Your Throat Press. She can be reached at www.hilarykingwriting.com.