Sedentary

One day I’ll be a sedentary old woman.
(Well, we’ll all be sedentary someday, if you catch me.)
The mop will collect dust
because isn’t that the perfect metaphor for what we learn
when age forces us to sit still and our purpose comes to us
without our wrists even striving to put it all in motion!
I’ll have no need for shinny floors, being sedentary, after all.
Instead all day I will paint the ceiling
with flames from a phoenix tail.
Not just red flames, much more
has happened to me in my life than red:
there were those precious years of white,
that turned rosy in adolescence and bled
without my realizing it into deep blue at seventeen,
then paled to purple, lingered a few years in the habit of gray…
Yes, I’ll be sedentary, collecting phoenix feathers that fall
as the past beats about the room on the white ceiling.
Yes, everyone deserves a time in their life to sit
and collect, when shiny floors are unnecessary –
when everything, in fact, is unnecessary -
and watch the colors, streaming by.