Sunday, February 16, 2014

Think on These Things


Only a mother knows what it is like to wait for her child's return.

Relief that first day you walk home from school alone kicking that pebble ahead of you.

Little did you know that she was on her knees half the day praying your heart would not be crushed

And it wasn't, not really, until that day in junior high, and you rush past her without a word, slam the door of your room. But her voice pries open the door and her arms around you accidentally bump the Niagara faucet of tears, her pulse a Richter scale of shattering sobs erupting from a ruptured friendship.

You start leaving in stages, stay away longer each time. Pack less. You touch home base, eat quickly, gather treasures and go learn from other mothers and fathers and brothers in arms. And a mother knows this is why she raised you, praised you, prays for you, stays for you. Waits for you in empty rooms once filled with your light.

She loves life too and lives it well. But it's never so full as when you fill her sight, walk by her side, share with her your other loves. She waits for this.

A mother loves you first and longest.
Perhaps history and kindness will show if she has loved you well.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Be Still


In the crush of all that is internet
The noise of all that is media
Relentless pursuit of better faster stronger prettier
Perfect

I stand in awe
of quiet simple gifts:
the sigh of my aging dog
comfort of a handmade quilt
soft snow on pine bough and eyelash
voice of my Beloved calling:
Come away and rest for a while
You are my joy

And I am carried.



Picture: sourced online

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Heirloom Courage


















She leans against the black granite counter
over white cupboards garbed in black sweats
under white t-shirt, head still covered from running
in face-slicing cold that frostbites fingertips

A twin to the girl with a pearl earring
she waits with sunset on her face for quinoa in the cooker
pours out her soul, a milk white strand of pearls
scattering across the hardwood

I recover the pearls, store them safe
in my heart shaped listening room
receive with awe the gift offered
try not to be swine