1
This La Jolla morning resembles dusk.
Instead of rising, I am setting
trapped in ever-dusk.
Names of months are all I see
of winter. A season-less sky
over the same scenes.
I don’t worry about slipping on ice,
walk long distances along the shore
and dine outdoors.
Yet, one grim day deflates me.
Remembering snowflakes nestled
on my window in Cambridge
or glistening in moonlight
leaves me unmoved.
My birthplace, Tehran, had a sunny climate
Snow sparkled a few days, and melted.
Clouds were floating blessings.
Have I grown numb to beauty?
2
Walking to my winter home on a sunny day,
I smile as I stroll past boutiques
offering Brazilian waxing, European facials,
hair and nail extension, anti-aging treatment.
I see a large sign on a window:
True Beauty Plastic Surgery
WE BELIEVE THAT BEAUTIFUL IS ALSO GOOD
Barely twenty-four, when a bank teller
saw my passport picture and exclaimed:
What happened to you? At forty I told friends
I’m done trying to be tall, thin and blond.
At home, I share the elevator
with a manicured older woman
hair coiffed, high heels
dressed up in a designer suit.
Automatically, I apologize
for my khakis, sneakers and knapsack.
To go shopping, I change my attire.
A neighbor notices: You look good.
I want to correct her: I am good.
3
Another day draws me to The Japanese Garden
in Balboa Park.
Meticulously crafted, it inspires
reflection on beauty.
Cherry blossoms are no longer in full bloom.
A bonsai magenta Camelia,
sixty-years-old, adapted to limited space,
looks young.
A waterfall gurgles over gigantic rocks
and flows into a pellucid pond
with glistening Koi.
I stop to ponder beauty that endures
as my past expands
and furrows on my face deepen.
Vida Kazemi was born in Tehran, Iran. She came to the US decades before the Revolution, but has visited Iran regularly to see family. Many of her poems reflect her bi-cultural experience. She is a retired psychologist living in Cambridge, Mass. Her poems have been published in Leon, Croton and Nelligan Reviews, Lily Poetry Review, and Common Ground Review.
Related Posts
« Ode to the Vast Space of Sand We Called a Football Field – Isra Abdalla The Summer I Was 14 – Penny Perry »














