Still Time: Reflections on Aging - Tapa blanda

Sinopsis

Kathleen Serley’s Still Time is a book of hope. Alongside the arc of universal aging, Ms. Serley assures us that it would be good if we could, like she does, “welcome life’s embrace / seek empty times, opportunities to listen / hope to give voice to all I carry masked, unmasked.” In this slim chapbook we get a glimpse of the author’s wide-ranging poetic sensibilities: free verse, haiku, rhyming, villanelle, and more. This is a beautiful volume.

—Chila Woychik, Editor, Eastern Iowa Review

These aging poems offer so much more than “seasons running out.” In lucid, lovely language and vivid imagery, Serley takes us through this natural life cycle, taxing physical changes, loss, creativity, and heightened joys of Still Time. Serley explicates the challenges of retirement “adrift / without my name badge for anchor,” fearful of giving up her place “being cared for rather than to care.” She shares the solace and fruitfulness of her connection with the natural world, recounts decades of planting trees “shaping the woods,” trees she now relishes with a neighbor “breathing in as they breathe out.” When her busy son calls, she wonders “how can I tell him about my afternoon / the hummingbirds in my garden?” These poems embrace “Earth with all its messiness,” remind us to “match your breath to the forest / adjust your pace to the lengthening shadows.”

—Nancy Austin, author, The Psychology of Rough Water and Something Novel Came in Spring

Kathleen Serley’s Still Time uplifts without glossing over the diminishment of aging. When a scuttling leaf brings to mind her decreased mobility, she recognizes that both can soar in the wind, and a wetland becomes a place she has “come today to slow my breathing.” Employing free verse and forms, the collection includes an entertaining pantoum, in which the poet feels “out of the loop” and a contrapuntal poem comparing retirement to slipping on a shapeless dress that is surprisingly comfortable. Like the climbing beans she plans to plant again because “they flourished along the fence,” these poems flourish.

—Joan Wiese Johannes, author, Lamenting My Failure to Learn How to Tap Dance (And Other Missteps)

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