Wilma

I wrote this poem a number of years ago for a lady I never met in person but with whom I corresponded and communicated. I was in awe of her work with Greenpeace and other organizations advocating for human rights and better environmental stewardship. For her privacy, I have only included images from Unsplash and no real photos of her.

As I lay my head down

Upon my pillow

And drift into dreams of

Her home across the sea,

I do not envision the deep

Burgundies of Rembrandt

Nor darkly lit museum pieces.

I see Wilma pedaling

Down sun washed streets,

Lined with rows of bright,

Yellow flowers

To buy vegetables for a simple supper

While she “finds” bikes for campaigns

And posts photos for friends.

She says, “No worries, no fuss.”

Wilma loves the blazing oranges of Sumatran tigers

That burn more brightly than any of Blake’s poetry-

Such sun fire highlights her profile of simple braids.

Like Pipi Longstocking...

“No worries, no fuss.”

At the winter Olympics the newscaster exclaims,

“Wow! The Dutch really know how to party!”

But you do not need any rum or beer to feel all right

When Wilma smiles at you

And says, “No worries, no fuss.”

Then I find her in the verdant, life-giving

Hues of Greenpeace.

A yoga teacher, she meditates

And visits the monastery of St. Francis

With such mindfulness,

She tends the flowers in her garden,

Sustenance for the bees,

Trims the kitchen herbs,

And works on her sewing

And craft projects.

Like the good woman of Proverbs 31,

Wilma says, “No worries, no fuss.”

And if I seek her in aquamarine waves,

Under peaceful skies of Parrish blue.

Or even the midnight indigo

In which she keeps diligent watch,

Wilma will shine like Van Gogh’s swirling stars,

Or, as his violet irises,

Stand alone.

“No worries, no fuss,”

Because Wilma likes to keep things simple,

And she is

Simply beautiful!

(It’s about time

Somebody made a fuss over her!)