I am not the mistakes I’ve made.
nor the plans I’ve laid.
I am not the victories past
nor good jobs done fast.
I am not the butter-brushed bread,
nor the challenge ahead,
I am not the pots I’ve thrown,
not the garments I’ve sewn.

I am not the achievements

-weights lifted over my head-

I am not the bereavements

-weights in the heart that embed-

I am not the owned nor the owner
of sweet lives surrounding.
Let us each make our sound,
the chorus abounding.

I am not the roles I play when the play unrolls.

I am not the judge nor weigher of souls.

and neither, my love, are you.

these things

– all this matter –

are simply evidence of a life
being lived

I am memory and hope

I am a never-ending rope

tying water to ashes and back again

and so, my love, are you.

in the same way my grandmother, now 20 years gone –
still asks me,
today
– just as clear as day –

“do you love him?”

and, “you’ll be okay.”

and paints toenails with me
on canopied California car aprons,

and washes the beach glass treasures and salty sand dollars

and watches geckos scurry on the rock road divides

the orange tree blooms

her laugh still fills the room.

these are the things we are

and always will be

no matter where

no matter with who

no matter without

no matter the matter that falls

an inventory of a day that passed;

some whole days are simply needful endurances

dental appointments and grocery runs
banks and haircuts and overdue books
heaps of dishes
and too many crumbs on the floor

the mail piled up at the door

the bedtimes that bring no rest
and the list
of tomorrow’s chores that loom like thunder in the not-so-far-off distance.
should I even go to sleep?

the storm is coming…

you’d think I’d be too busy to notice
but I notice.
don’t you?

the ache?
the wonder?
when will it break?

music conforms to the mundane
and song slips into silence

and poetry leaves me

quietly

(but there is something in me still).

thank you for the storms that cut out all the power
that make me lose track of the duty driving hour

and go slow

thank you for the upset to my days
that make me change my rhythm’d ways

and skip

a

beat.

thank you for the crises and the headaches
the debacles and the back breaks

that make me rest in you

again.

just a breath where glances hung
in my mind’s eye,
in my tightened lung,

an inhale at the collar bone
to catch again the scent of home

and my lips curl at the corner
and my fingertips grow warmer

in the storm
in the upset
and a little after too

in the wake of it all
i still recall

being caught by the cheek,
looked in the eye,
and loved.

Dear Child,

it’s not the toys i wrap
nor the bread i bake
the laundry i fold
nor the beds i make

it’s not the things i do
i do
i do
God, i don’t stop doing

i see
i see
it’s the time i give
to see you

so many days my eyes are fixed upon the work
that is not my greatest work

i know
i know
it’s the time i give
to know you

so many days my mind is overfilled
with things I shouldn’t mind

i hear
i hear
it’s the time i give
to listen

so many days i speak too much
and let your words go missing

but I have one thing more to say:

your words –

speak them always in your heart
they are yours
and yours deserving
though mine and many ears won’t hear
in the hustle of hurry –

keep them coming.

your dances –

though few will see them
or understand their beat
persist with arms pumping
and the stomping of your feet

keep on moving.

your gifts –

cannot be undone by others’ doing
cannot be forgot by others’ ignoring
cannot be lessened by lesser men
and cannot be known if you don’t show them

keep them going

out of you and on

and on

and on

and on

like the time
we all
must give.

At the divides in life:

the broken bridges,
the crags and ridges,
the lefts or rights,
the fights or flights,
the nos or yeses,
the mores or lesses,

we choose.

sometimes holding is not an option and choice comes upon you like hail.

(and you thought it was just raining, didn’t you?)

it’s there, under ice,
when the pelt
you felt
swells into welt,

you react
and chose

something

for better or worse

to get away from the pain
or the fear of more ice coming.

and in the shelter of that outcome –
when the hail has stopped and the skies are clear again –
you wonder if you chose well.
wisely.
right.

o you little choices –
you shooting stars –

with the passing of time
have matured into mountains
too steep to be climbed.

now. dry. clearing sky.
how do we face the choices we chose?

we can hide them,
deny them,
heartily defend them,
perpetually repent them,

but to undo we cannot do

they’re not bargained slaves in ugly trade
they are not painted up and prettier made
they are ours and solely owned
they cannot be sold
they cannot be loaned

we cannot reverse ourselves in time,
just as fallen lights
back to the heavens cannot climb.

so here in this moment, come sit with me, choices
like children,
like ages,
let me see you,
hear your voices.

I’ll no longer judge you
or shamefully begrudge you
you were young once,

and so was I.

and together,
we’ll know better,

though hail still downward flies.

long roads
dark miles
yellow seconds ticking
like blinks of eyes and days gone by
and how the years are pricking

my mind

with memory

do we miss what we never were?

was it the curve or the bend
that led down a dead end
on the track

and do we want to go back?

far from home, the table calls
with scents of smoke and sage
nearer we come and courage stalls;

is it side effect of age?

I missed the answers to these questions.
I miss the home that I can rest in.
and warmth of a fire within

I’ll place the hearth in my belly,
beg the four winds to tell me:
which way?
which way?
which way?

long roads

dark miles

get me home.