the green pants

So I’m walking in the park

and I see the crazy lady coming,

this woman who greets all strangers

as if they are long lost friends.

Which sounds, I know, like the definition

of a saintly soul. It’s just

I’ve been around my share of

saintly soul performances,

and my heart refuses to give itself away

one more time

to bolster someone else’s shaky ego.

I know this history qualifies me

as another crazy lady.

(If you think I don’t know who I am,

look at the crazy lady pants I’m wearing.)

But I made this deal with my body

that I would stop forcing it to play nice

no matter what my mother taught me.

I have my own permission

to be rude if I have to, but I would rather

avoid than confront, so when I see her,

I send out a quick call for help.

In the instant, my body knows

exactly what to do. I veer off the path,

turn to a tree, and ask its permission

to breathe together until the danger passes.

The bur oak graciously accepts my request,

receives my upward gaze, and connects.

He breathes a warm grandfatherly blessing

from his gnarly bark and jointed branches,

and I stay longer than I have to

in his kind embrace.