Pause

by HEATHER BOURBEAU

Each year they come, the grasses.
They force cracks through my path.
Perhaps I should admire
their need to survive and grow, 
then yellow and die.
Instead, each year, I rip them out,
make space for flowers.

Next week will mark my menopause.
One year since my last sloughing.
I see the drain of estrogen 
in my eyes, my skin, in the small belly 
fat above my pubic bone. 
And in the wisdom that comes
when one is not only driven to fuck.

This spring, I will keep one patch 
of grasses and wood sorrel
floating between my bricks
as a reminder to delight 
in things we have been taught
are not worth savoring,
hold no value.