By Haki R. Madhubuti

for Gwendolyn Brooks at 83

The weather does not age, it
changes
bringing peach and hurricane,
water
and sun for planting, walking
and smiles
extending people to long life,
maybe.

I’ve grown up in your magic,
shadows and words,
I’ve seen you manage pens,
paper, poor eyesight and gift
giving.
I’ve measured the recent dip in
your walk,
noting the way the wind leans
you into its current
and I worry.

What if I’m not there to catch
your arm
to gently steer you away from a
fall, missed step
or from harm’s way

but you’ve always been your
own clock
and as the seasons disappear
and rise
you know exactly what time it
is,
beating the beat in storms not
of your making.