Plain
I don’t recall her name. Only that she
lived briefly in the studio behind
my Nana’s house and played guitar. I’d find
her sometimes in the main house, though, preparing
food, making herself a cup of tea,
or in the garden, petting someone’s cat.
I don’t recall her hair, what she was wearing;
nothing unusual, I guess. She told
me that she went to Friends’ meetings and sat
there, waiting. That she liked the quiet. Had
I asked about religion? I don’t know.
I did ask people things like that, at times.
Later, grown up, I’d try it too. I’d go
sit in a room with Quakers, listen, wait
to hear the Spirit speak. The Spirit led
me, ultimately, elsewhere; still, I hold
a memory of her among the chimes
and the nasturtiums, with no name, no car,
liking the quiet, strumming her guitar –
a passing wind that moved the garden gate.
Hilary Biehl’s poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, THINK, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, and elsewhere. Her poetry collection, Giants Crossing, was published in 2025 by Kelsay Books. She lives in New Mexico.
Amethyst Review 