I want to call You and tell You about the things I saw, felt, and thought while walking
I want to call You and tell You about the dreams I have
I want to call You and share the art that grows in my heart
I want to call You just to hear Your laughter … free and wild, like Your spirit
I want to call You … mine.
I want to be beautiful.
Not like something for sale, not what a patriarchal society whistles and moans and lusts over, no.
I want … I long to be the beauty of the natural.
Not even the peacock, or the flowers, but the thriving, brilliant, living Green of the leaves that at once delights, comforts, and feeds.
There are walks We will never take.
Places We’ll never see together .
Adventures We will never share.
Stories We will never create.
Conversations, never born.
I remember them all.
Chilly night, and I’m substituting the warmth of Her touch with green tea and the sweetness of Her kiss with honey. They are ghosts of the real thing, but the memory is still clear. Sharp and silver.
Good memories. Happy memories.
I’m not broken, I’m not fragile. I found strength and love within, and I’m building on that foundation.
The smell of fall in the air and in my mind I’m back home.
Alone, but not lonely. Discovering myself (again) in the solitude.
Tea and Honey.
And it’s enough.
All alone on the stage tonight
I’m not afraid, or so I’m told.
I know these lines, I’ve spoken them scores of times.
I always, always hit my mark.
I head the bill in my own humble show
I come in proud and clean
I know I’ll leave empty and scarred
I give it all, you know?
I don’t leave any in the reserve because that’s not the me I know. Both feet. Full immersion.
The scars won’t be my own, but I’ll own them for a time.
Proud to carry the hurt, the words, the ugly
The boy on the playground, delivering soliloquies to the swings, sonnets to the slide.
Picking up his trash and tucking it into his (lunchbox), heading home through the soft rain and the hard, pointed jeers.
… and the green.
Despite the taunts, all that haunts
Are the smell of the good earth
And the color of the tree filtered sunset.
It’s a spotlight, and he’s almost home.
I am Earth. Dirt born at the hands of a holy woman (in a holy place).
I am Earth, creation, womb, haven.
I am Earth as You are surely Water.
I am Earth, and the green lives within my heart, waiting to bloom.
Heirloom, family table. Deep, polished wood with hints and sparks of red, if you looked deep enough. I lived through fifteen years of meals at that table and never once noticed a scratch in the surface, and the table was much older than me, even then.
The last time I saw it, I looked deep, seeing myself as in an earthen mirror. I wondered over how many reflections were trapped with its history. How many meals?
How many secrets heard, how much grief calmed? How many arguments over dessert? How many make ups over coffee? There must be hours of confessions, weeks of love talk (please pass the juice, my dear) and years upon years of stories shared within this simple piece of beloved and faithfully polished furniture.
I don’t know the fate of the table. I hope it still serves a family, somewhere. I hope their own lives and stores are adding to its rich color and flavor.
Filed under Musings, poetry