I open to Rilke’s “Blue Hydrangeas”
and see written “July 1976”
in the margin. I marvel anew
at his blue letter paper washed out
like a child’s apron no longer used.
I marvel too at the 25 years
that have brought me to this place,
how in 25 more I’ll be an old woman.
MacIntyre translates: “One feels
how short the little life has been.”
Indeed, but then the blue renews
itself in one last cluster.