Said the wise man to the maid:

“There just isn’t enough time.

Forget about minutes,
there aren’t enough years
to share what I’ve learned
through fist-fights, lovers, wins, and tears.

I don’t have much to give you,
I don’t have much to say,
I have no truth that’s truth pristine,
just clear account of all my days.

There is no gold inside of me,
but I have wealth in history.

My bang ups and my F-ups,
my ridiculous successes,
the choices that weren’t left up

to me –

– and some i failed to see.

The hurts that hurt but never showed.
The gifts that slippery fate bestowed.

I will not tell you not to lie,
I will not tell you not to cheat,
I’ll not prescribe or specify
technique for good life on repeat.

But I will tell you this:

I’ve got your back
I’m on your side,

no end,

beside.

I won’t see
your every step and stumble
nor be near every catch and fumble

I won’t.

But you’re strong
and you’re able

so don’t

you

worry

about

you.

There’s a lot of life that’s left to live
and few of us will take it.
Just don’t wait till you’re my age ‘cause
there’s no gain to fake it.

It is a secret ‘tween us now,
though everybody knows it;
and only those who keep their spark
will live a life that shows it.”

there’s a storm rolling in
over there
coming here
and in not so very long a time
it’ll land

it’ll bring rain in white rocks                  down

it’ll bring fire in bright rods                                    up

up from the ground

and if you move far enough out
of yourself
of the house
of the box

and away from the noise

– all that noise –

you can hear it rumble.

‘cause a storm doesn’t just come upon you.

it growls,
low, and without breath,
in ceaseless roll.

it takes the ton pounds of clouds,
undulating and thick,
and puts them down into your gut.

it drives into the earth, and up through your legs, till it sits in your hips
and tightens the grip
on the wind that’s left
in your lungs.

It takes the air and stills it,

takes the eye and fills it,

with arrangement while it hovers you

in grey and green it covers you

in mutable, mercurial dance

as you stand there, fixed. entranced.

see it swelling

feel it floating

moving like smoke,

undissipating

and strong.

and when it passes,
you wonder how anything so big
could be

gone.

I can bench.
I can press.
I can curl and lift and squat.
I can run until my lungs burn and my thighs turn to fire at the knee.
I can pull in water till the air escapes from me.
I can hold the ocean back behind my lips and never utter

what I know.

what I feel.

what I want.

I can acquiesce to sand
and let those things fade away
like foam trails from fading tides.

but the weight of not holding you?
this, I do not bear well.

strong is as strong does.

some days my strength is shown in what I cannot do.

it’s the WAY we’re living it,
it’s not the where we’re living it,
nor the who we’re living it with.

i have met so many people who feel isolated or lonely
in a crowd.
on a farm.
from a city.
from an island.
in a daze.
married.
not.
single.
searching.

all of us –

we all want for something  –

out there.

but possibly,

it’s not there.

never has been.

it’s here.

close your eyes,
put your hand on your chest,
breath in.

yeah.

there.

right there –

it is.

it’s history and memory and future and dream and all the wonderful things that happen without having to ACTUALLY happen to be real. and shared. and remembered. and felt.

there are only a few people you can share that with
and you don’t even need to be with them to feel it,

but there are a few.

living,
dead,
near,
far,
close by and barely out of reach,
but never,
not ever,
forgotten,

there –

some kind of home does live.

When you wake to the sound of strings
you forgot you haven’t heard –

I haven’t heard  –

that sound for so long.
so many years.

skin on steel,
slide and grit,
that pic,
that pic,

has been the song to my chop wood, carry water
for countless hard-worked days.
o how that cadence kept my back from breaking
under all the weight-

-under all that water and wood.

but the music went, one day.
duty died it away.
the beat went still
in that boy,
in that heart,
in that bedroom,
and the safe, blue, dark.

but I kept           moving

i        kept

moving

i kept

somewhere, that song,

in my chop, wash,

carry, knead,

beat, brush,

bandage, seed,

hurry, hurry, hurry,

I kept it for you.

I keep it still.

low tones rising
high voice crying
accidentals warning:
give heed.
the song will change again.

plucking braided rhythm
it’s the first time I’ve been with’m
in years maybe, who knows?

When you finally, finally say
with note and strum and chord
who you were,
who you are,
who’s the who you’re moving toward,

play, baby, play,
‘cause I can hear you now.
it may be I would stay
if that song you would allow
out of you and aching,
all defenses breaking

when you play.

play, baby, play.
it might be I would stay
if there were someone here beside

and singing too.

I’ve never had many memories of my childhood. But as I grow in years and witness my children growing in theirs, some faded images of youth are making their way to my mind’s eye and heart’s ear.

One that recently came to me dates back to about age 12: I was visiting my step-grandmother in Arizona. I hadn’t met her very many times. She was a nice lady, but we had little understanding of one another. I remember getting sick. I remember a pain in my gut and a weakness in my head. I remember being afraid that I was ruining vacation.

This woman – her name is Ethel – she sat down in a rocking chair and told me to sit on her lap.

Now, I was 12 and I was no dainty 12. I was already aware of being the tallest girl in class who outweighed most of the boys and was extremely cognoscente of my mass.

She rocked me. It seemed like hours. She wasn’t afraid of my weight. She wasn’t afraid of projectile vomit. She wasn’t afraid of a ruined vacation. She rocked that bug right out of me.

You know, I don’t remember anything else about that “vacation” and though I’m sure there was a lot of money spent on souvenirs, I recall only that moment.

Fast forward to age 27: it was the morning of my wedding. I had spent the night at my folks’ place where we’d all head to the church together. As I came downstairs, groggy from last night’s rehearsal dinner and aiming for the coffee pot, my step-mom, Ethel’s daughter – her name is Jane – sat on the couch and told me to sit on her lap.

A MENTAL PICTURE:
Jane:
5’4”,
maybe 100 pounds
(if she’s carrying a bag of groceries),
legs criss-crossed
so she could put me:
5’9”,
at least 140
(without groceries),
in her lap,
wrap her arms around me,
and sway.

She rocked me. It seemed like hours. She wasn’t afraid of my weight. She wasn’t afraid of spilling coffee. She wasn’t afraid of getting to church 5 minutes late. She rocked those prayers right into me.

Fast forward to tonight: I heard my daughter crying. I couldn’t tell you about what. I still don’t know. But as I stood there with my mouth full of toothpaste, and the laundry timer going off, and the list of “to-do-before-bed” unsurmountable before me, I heard that sound we humans utter that says, “I hurt.” It wasn’t the “I-didn’t-get-my-way” whimper. It wasn’t the “please-someone-notice-me” wail. It was the sound that we make when we ache in deep places. And my daughter made that sound.

I picked that girl up – all 10 years of her – and leaned her into me, and I just let her cry. And I rocked her. It didn’t seem like hours. I wasn’t afraid of the weight. I wasn’t afraid of the snot and the drool. I wasn’t afraid of the hours I’d spend past bedtime getting things done. I rocked the sad right out of her.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow she’ll wake up and maybe not remember anything else about this whole summer, save the feeling of being rocked when she didn’t even know she could be.