Weathering Me

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when the sun was still early in the sky

and the waves broke easy near the shore

I waded past knee high white caps into the Atlantic

early summer smiled and so did I

floating through what the sea rolled my way

                                      

hours like minutes, until the clock faced sky

began to fill with cloudy hands

the water churned mixing salt and sand

the roll pulled me down the shore, but still I rode

swam harder to keep time with the sea

 

the sun sank lower, watching me

clouds spread darker, angering the sea

I grew smaller and more tired, floating out the waves

still I stayed in that day

where else would I be?

 

the tide began to rip and pull at me

drew me out further, where the surf broke high and loud

I dove beneath, let it swirl above

but it all came faster and faster

trying to keep up with the sea

 

my breath was short and salty

what I had left was low as the falling sun

watching as a breaker swept over me

tossed beneath its turbulent green

I washed up on shore, a piece of driftwood

 

next wave hit me square, spun me under

pulled me back, so I stayed at the edge and didn’t leave

sun still watching, still waiting, still listening

I was salt and sand and part of the sea

wave after wave weathering me

 

Roots

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what once floated on lost

grew roots from the sky, and they

wrapped around clouds, painting them

luminous and full of harmony,

and the roots of found rained down

in gentle hold, showed the trees

how to stay the seasons, how to last

they spread and deepened, wove

through time, centuries of roots,

paths that crossed and crossed again

until it became one path that grew

and led us home

before we knew

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the places we gather

inside

how we hide

in between

the pieces of yesterday

and the rise of tomorrow

within

us, and through all time

we didn’t know but walked

empty

trying to hold water

up

with our hearts, and how

it rained down

rained down

on

us

before

we

knew

 

Us

how we planned

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built on

ideas

of tomorrows

when

all the yesterdays

are blind

we plan

draw visions

of hope

in pencil, on

flimsy paper

that afternoons fade

and rains run

crumple

ripped dreams

days end

faded know

things don’t

always

work out

how

we

planned 

The Butterfly and the Hail Storm

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In the morning, while the sun knew
and I was time, she drifted to me.  Blue,
floating blue cascade shimmer, she came
to me with whispers of summer still.
Quieted by her dance, I stayed as she
settled upon me, smiled with her indigo
wings, round eyes and watched me
wonder her blue deep through me.
 
And then later, on the mountain, darkness
dropped, as it does with time, sky turning,
mirroring granite below. Rain pelted, soaked,
willed itself to hail. Morning forgotten,
I drew myself closed within the gray, startled
by bolts of lightning on nearby pines.  Hunched
down, arms around knees, head bowed, hurting.
I felt the wings on my back lose their flight.
 

The Hold of Time

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On the balcony, overlooking the sea, inside of time,

they drank their tea.  Blessed by orange and gold,

the sun set slowly, holding every moment,

hand in hand, a dream set on repeat.

 

Yesterday came and went, and the ticket remained

on the shelf.  She folded up the sunset with the tea,

inside the hands, palm lines underneath time.

Today is forever remembering tomorrow.

 

Rusty Locks

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Some

locks

don’t open

 even if you have the

key.

Life

may have been

too harsh, and

rain,

too many days,

will rust anyone

closed.

You can

climb over gates

but the

lock

will always

stay

rusted shut,

in time and for time,

and only he

will know

why.

Distance Measured

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Distance is measured in absence and cups of tea.

Seasons fly like miles, wildflowers remind, but then go,

their faces hung with sorry.  Distance lingers its space

in written kisses, muted colors, and shadows in between.

Music fills, then hollows, echoes, magnifies the far.

Measure it in cold, the blankets it takes to feel safe,

the uneasy sleep of reach, tired photographs scatter.

Distance is kilometers of untold stories, substitutions,

the poetry of isolation, the lapse of home, the missing.

Distance is measured in the expanse of the ache for you. 

 

 

Us

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in how shall i wait when i drift

within the feel of all that is you,

music and the wrap of my soul,

wildflowers and goodnight kisses,

guardian mountains and speaking eyes.

traveling my days woven with your

every thought, and mine, and wait,

so patience rings like a bell tower

on the highest hill, and I climb

by the sun’s pull and my know of you

to the now that waits for tomorrow,

each step and word, hope leading to

us. 

 

 

the path

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the path leads
whispers unknowing,
draws you, pines,
tomorrows to follow.
walk it with tender feet,
mild heart, searching
blind corners.
the path speaks
silent tones of hanging moss,
fallen logs, pine cones,
hear with your eyes,
color the symphony,
of so many days
walking ups and downs.
the path follows,
shadows of feel,
learned and passed,
crunch of golden pine
needles, fallen back down,
looked sweetly upon
by the sun, and the long
path, and always, you.

 

Two Squares and a Circle

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What ghosts follow when you track

back so far?  Stone foundations,

full of your words, crumble and roll,

and the pine pieces, marked by knots

of pain and despair, age away in

forgetfulness.  Is this a blessing,

when the holes appear, let light and cold

pass, allow locked in grievances to leave?

Or does it all remain anyway, underneath

the rusted metal roof – the hurts

that can’t be released, circling around

the structure as time takes it down?

There’s still a place to let it go –

two squares and a circle.

 

 

Frozen in the Moment

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I keep them frozen in the moment of joy,

soaring through southern summer heat

with squeals and laughter that only linger

in tender youth. Their toes point like dancers,

hands reach skyward – up, up, up –

it’s all out there for them to seize,

a sky of possibilities, where each will find

her own blue, create her clouds.

Time may move, but I keep them here, safe,

in this place, where their summer days at the lake

pass gently, with joy and promise. As long as I

hold them here, in a golden frame,

they shall never be swallowed up

by the dark, cold waters beneath them.