Like lightning, bolting from the sky —
A flash of inner sight consigned to words
That rip the page or heart.

Diving, like a small, feathered seal
Into the pachysandra sea,
Bobbing, weaving,
Then the sharp jab
Of beak, a spear
To catch the prize.

Women of a certain age
(Or born at a certain time
In a certain era, milieu, set of expectations...)
Can find their way around other women’s kitchens.

The photos appear, rectangles growing smaller
As more and more of us sign in.
We are in the kitchen, the den, the office—
“At home,” no calling cards needed.