The Dipping Spoon
Barbara Daniels
These photos, I don’t know myself.
Not the cat shirt, the big straw hat.
A fan stirs my dirty curtains. Plastic fish
hung from the ceiling swim through air.
My legs ache from walking. It’s only July,
but fall webworms crawl across sidewalks--
spiky fuzz, black dots lined up
on yellow-green skin. Choices open,
choice of the foot, the hand. My breath
falters. I let it go. It’s OK that I failed
the test of connection. Some ties
can link again. This is my breath,
bones in my fingers healing, arms
like flexible branches. Nightmares
drop from my lap and roll away. It’s
a beautiful day I tell the mail carrier.
Isn’t it beautiful I say to a woman
walking her Shih Tzu. How ravishing
all the pink clouds, my hand a spoon
dipping out helpings of cream.
JANUARY 2026
Barbara Daniels
These photos, I don’t know myself.
Not the cat shirt, the big straw hat.
A fan stirs my dirty curtains. Plastic fish
hung from the ceiling swim through air.
My legs ache from walking. It’s only July,
but fall webworms crawl across sidewalks--
spiky fuzz, black dots lined up
on yellow-green skin. Choices open,
choice of the foot, the hand. My breath
falters. I let it go. It’s OK that I failed
the test of connection. Some ties
can link again. This is my breath,
bones in my fingers healing, arms
like flexible branches. Nightmares
drop from my lap and roll away. It’s
a beautiful day I tell the mail carrier.
Isn’t it beautiful I say to a woman
walking her Shih Tzu. How ravishing
all the pink clouds, my hand a spoon
dipping out helpings of cream.
JANUARY 2026
