Touching

I think of you first, almost before waking.
Outside the window, I watch the solid horizontal ridgeline,
Old and unmoving, juxtaposed against swaying vertical lines,
Myriad branches and leafless trees.
I wish to touch the sky between them.
I wish to touch you. 
I wish you would touch me.
There are so many things in the way.
I don't know what they are.
I can't call them by name.

Making Peace

I think it might be important to make peace with what is, before moving on to what is to come.  I try to live in the present as much as possible, but now and again a trip back, to evaluate, for educational purposes, isn't a bad thing.

It does appear that every now and again, god has to give us a good, swift kick in the pants, for no apparent reason.  Maybe it is fun to watch us dance.  Maybe it is a learning lesson.  Maybe it is just a cosmic accident.  But it does happen and on the great continuum, if it doesn't involve the death of a spouse, child, beloved pet or loved one, we are pretty darned lucky.

Sometimes, however, we find ourselves stuck, in a situation that is not of our making, that is painful, offensive and sickening.  It makes us ill, our health declines, our hearts break and our souls wither. And still we try to change the situation.

There are many good sayings about these situations: "Out of difficulty grows miracles." "God won't give us anything we can't handle." "When a door closes, a window will open." But I object somewhat to the passive nature of these phrases.  I do not believe god puts us in these situations, so he can rescue us from them.  We must rescue ourselves. We must tear a hole in our own brick wall, using something on the order of a toothpick and our own fingernails, until our worldview changes, the boundaries of our thought processes expand, and we find peace, not in changing the situation, but in moving beyond it.

“There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.”

Washington Irving quotes (American Writer called the first American man of letters. Best known for the short stories The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. 1783-1859)

Sunset of We

Pacific Island,
Elongated beach,
Sapphire water
Pinkish sand,
Chubby bare legs
Of bucket-toting children,
Catching my eye.

Shimmering.

I choose to remember
That day,
The smell of salt;
No hint of rain.
We were so
Elegant then,
Lacquered pacific lunch box,
On a teakwood deck,
Amber iced tea,
Exotic ginger in a vase,
Hypnotic sea breeze,
Twisting fortune,
The belief you loved me
That I deserved your love,
That it could last forever
Floating effortlessly overhead.

I did not expect then
That I would fail us, destroy us,
With the formidable force
Of an unborn, ill-conceived baby
Of the female imagination.
And I did not expect that you
Could deny me something
Of such importance
With such ease.

After that,
We traveled alone.

Now we are older;
Not so elegant.
None of it really matters,
But it still stings.

Poverty

Just as the bleary eyes of a child
Wait for Santa long past bedtime,
I lie in the dark, waiting for you.
I play in the imaginary sandbox
Of goodness (in case goodness might help),
Until the bright plastic of my
Sandbox toys fades to milk.
I dance in the imaginary light of service
Until I know every weakness I possess.
I wield the puppets of compassion
Until they become awkward, and still,
As self-serving as an antique mirror.
I awaken and find I love you still
Even if I don’t qualify,
Even if Christmas never comes.

Wedding Dress

A wedding dress,
For a young lady,
Elegant, pretty,
Not just any dress,
A dress of passage.
Women gather,
Young and old,
Expectant,
Anticipating signs,
A meshing of fabric and lace,
And partially formed identity,
In suddely mature loveliness.
Beads sparkle,
In the young bride's eyes;
A smile forms that brings tears;
Faith is restored,
By a new beginning.

A Father’s Tale

His wife’s death was as easy
As the slow, soft rocking of
Her chair, before the fire.
She died young, she ceased
To rock long before he knew.
He was a busy man.
She was a memory he
Could not call back.

Thus it was that,
At forty-three years
He took up a crayon
And began to draw the
Garden where he played
Hide and seek between
The roses and the trees
When he was seven.
The old paths were dim,
Less sure where they were
Leading, cluttered with
Weeds that seemed useful
In the beginning for
Holding together the soil,
But that grew until
They had taken it up,
Become the soil, become
The fabric and the frame
So that the picture was
Indiscernible, its message
Lost in a memory he
Could not call back.

Rebirth has never been easy.
It took all of his second forty years—
He was a fortunate man—
To pull the weeds,
To get at the roots that
Suck and twine and curl
With the working of the earth,
To get them out
In time to rock before the fire
A few more hours
As the child he had been,
Drawing hides and seeks
And clean leading paths.

Until one day he ceased to rock,
Slow and soft before the fire,
Where I sat stupidly trying
To draw a memory
I could not call back.

Wanting

The view is numb.
Your words have gone cold,
I wish for the detail
That once hurt me,
The rocks in my path
Are smooth now,
The fields covered over
With ice and snow,
I am paralyzed with waiting.