Watching from near the gate,
counting leaves from the tree limb
that hangs over the honeysuckle.
Being seven,
in all its dusty playground glory.
Sweet fleeting recess
with strangers
that might be friends
once they overlook my odd name
and different accent.
Holding the sweater sleeve
up to my nose, inhaling
mother’s lingering Jean Naté
and Virginia Slims.
Shifting feet over acorns and pebbles,
remembering a river
I hadn’t seen yet
but knew was there waiting.
Wondering at how time stretched
to lose track of home
even though I never forgot to imagine
each room as it would be.
Flight by river
A water song thrown
to a dark night sky.
The moon’s not there
to toss it back;
she must be asleep.
Music lost.
A shuttered heart.
And then?
With firm grip to ground
and a look to a sky of forget,
we try fluidity
but lack grace of rainfall.
Called by the river,
aimlessly following waves.
Silvery edged currents.
Do they all end the same?
He tells me to drop my hold
on the wind,
stop my spin, face tomorrow’s sun,
and gather convening crows.
Smoothly whispering feathers
suggests capture;
wile and flight a guide.
A water dance held
in soft moss steps.
The river shares soft light
for lost comfort
before harsh morning.
Imprint of wind
An imprint
of dynamic wind moving clouds
sun touching branches
touching wings
of geese, swans, and eagles
gliding over ripples
of freshly-thawed lake water
pushed by wind
green waving sediment
blue reflection of sky
carrying seeds, leaves, and hollow
to another cove
of alder, pine, and larch
canopy of old branches
holding me
calling me
daughter, mother, sister, lover
of shadow
dance and color filtered
by wind moving trees
moving clouds
over ground soggy with spring.
Better wild and fallen
The problem, of course,
with returning from a wild place
is your feet can never seem to re-find purchase.
Like a newborn hoofed beast,
you end up splayed and on your face,
which is better anyway,
because it is heartbreaking
to keep looking up and only catch a glimpse
of real light amid false bulbs
instead of the giant sky-bowl
you once drank from.
When down as low as the earth,
at least you can dream of up.
Today marked my third anniversary of writing and sharing it online (thanks for the reminder, WordPress!). It seemed like a good time to look back a bit at how I’ve grown from when I first started writing, to compiling my first book two years ago, and now…
With “She Spoke of Earth and Sky,” you will read a woman finding her voice amid the landscapes of experience, imagination, and the wood and valleys of Pennsylvania. (And I promise not to talk about myself too often in the third person.)
Thank you for your support.
The Word Rummager 