Sacred stones roll around on the floor of my car, carried
in over years of scavenging. Pocketed. Parceled. Placed on dashboard or grave. Markers of present coloring past. The sun bathes the windshield just so and the
secret messages written in mud or snow show themselves for the innocent
blessing that they are. I walk into this side street café with my bruised heart
in a purple and black satchel and am greeted by a circle of banjo players and
one free seat against the window. Chairs like we inhabited in elementary school
when things were still made of wood, grafted together at the corners with
metal, corners rounded and smooth. We kept our notes in desks and lockers,
wrote whispers of names we adored on the plain brown wrappers around our math
books. Took broken bits and mending tape, carted cassette songs of guitar players who have since
died or changed their names. Like mantras, directions to the river canyon where we
could picture the rough rope as magical swing over the cold water. The
perfect drop into the uncontrolled. The seconds of our happy eyes opening under water to
witness the consecrated. To hear every thought in the perfect suspension. The rattle of the sacred. Pocket. Canyon.
What springs up: insistence in this persistent mother of mine (still breathing) Even busy ashes from a rescued urn float up reconstituted as morning dew She unfolds her tendril arms from shadow (shaking just five days ago as if in temporary surrender) (that moment when I am less certain of her longevity) this woman ever present (anyone’s mother) aging when even the most spindly clover of her fragile skin captures the sunrise light like anticipation’s shower blood underneath all humming bird or spores from her heart and in her mouth inhale (frightened) breath exhale grit inhale (certain) breath exhale grit
I love this--can I re-blog, with link, on Miriam's well?
ReplyDeleteDear Miriam,
DeleteI would be delighted if you wished to re-blog. I'm honored, actually. And your asking is a gift tucked inside what has turned into a difficult week. Thank you. Send me the link; I'll keep an eye out!
Warmly,
Robyn
It should go up tomorrow--will send link. Very touching piece.
ReplyDeleteDear Robynthis is so beautifully done,love and light,angelee(India)
ReplyDeleteAngelee, I so appreciate your words. Thank you.
Deletesorrows transformed into sacred stones. bruised heart in a satchel. chairs of memory that set us straight. the swing of poetry over caught water...
ReplyDeleteMy dear artful, you know me well. Thank you.
Delete