---

∴

maiden,
mother,
matron-crone,

no face of woman
can full be known

for each foreshadows to the last
and draws upon collective past.

 

the quiet one and veiled,
who can know her hidden tales?

only sun who warms her,
and moon who keeps her dream,

in ageless, sameness holding,
and where possibilities still seem.

 

maiden,
mother,
matron-crone

how do so many –
the same –
feel so alone?

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

∴

there is a remembering
that comes in times of trauma,
or great, upheaving transitions,
that is unlike other things
we can recall.

it is a deeper memory,
and it is not to be wasted
on self-pity.

when it comes on,
it comes like a breeze,

and is easily missed
if you are too busy,
and run at the speed of breezes,

or if you are too inebriated
by life,
as it ruthlessly presents itself
falsely,
and again,
and are passed out on the couch
while the memory
walks through your kitchen
and calls you,
with smell and fire,
but goes unnoticed.

 

this is the order of things.

 

that we should struggle with the earth,
as it is hard
and untempered.

that we should put into it
whatever offering
might grow.

that we should strive
toward bright things
that feed us well

and give thanks
for sweet reliefs.

 

and sometimes,
if we are lucky,

we will remember
how beautiful
we will be

in the end,

which was the start of it all.

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

it is a life

too commonly tragic

to live

without love

and void

of good magic.

∴

 

---

 

---

∴

may i come in?

i have heard the murmurs
of happy voices,
and the coos of lovers,
and the sing-song soothers,
like mothers
to their children,

behind these hidden doors

that i have stumbled upon,
time
and time
again.

 

from outside these doors,
i have listened to the clink of glasses
and the trickle of wine
and the chime of bells
on dancers.

i have perceived the pensive
but happy sighs
of souls being comforted
after crying.

i have heard
the water fall
that washed
deep wounds.

 

these doors
are cloaked in pine needles
and sunsets
and the fold of wind
through morning glory’s vine.

they appear when my child laughs
and i remember what it was
to laugh.

i make out their shape and keyhole
when i watch the potter throw –
when i see the painter pick the perfect color
that was nothing
’til they chose it –

and i nearly opened them once
and came in
a long time ago,
when i was young,
and believed i was worthy enough
to enter.

 

but time has taught me my truths.

 

and now i know
how simply i must ask
and how grateful i should be
if given passage.

 

so,
may i?

standing still,
outside these doors,

may i,

please,

come in?

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

i gave it to a good keeper,
the better part of me,

so anything that’s precious
is held by gravity;

back to cloistered caverns
and undiscovered shrines

that keep and clothe
the barren i’d be
if not for help,
divine.

∴

 

---

 

---

∴

when there are no words,

the senses
occupy the taciturn gaps
and read what the eyes
might beg to say
if the tongue would loose;
but it will not.

 

when there are no words,

an embrace is the only
currency for trade.

 

when there are no words,

the silence protects us
from the things
that whence uttered
change too much,

and saves room for hope,

that breadth
of time and sound
will reckon back to rights

the parts that wait,

un-mended.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

as far as i can see –

when i open my eyes,
that is –

you have everything –

everything –

you need.

 

want is a wistful beast
so pay little mind to him,
for you have been built,

indestructibly.

 

we’re at a gorgeless feast
to be filled with, to the brim;
to table we come,

ineluctably.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

i don’t remember my dreams;

i haven’t had many
in a decade or more.

those i do recall
seem silly and strange,
as dreams seem to lucid minds.

they fade quickly
in the light of day –
like invisible ink
that air dries runes
on blank pages –

there
and gone.

there.

and…

 

so i was surprised
when i woke with a dream
of significance;

it lingered
like a snuffed candle.

i could see the trail
of ember and smoke
that my psyche’d left dancing
in the room:

 

in the midst of my dream-home
grew a low, sculpted evergreen,
like an overgrown bonsai
in the place of a table.

beneath the highest bough,
on a thick curved branch,
and hidden in shade
and smells of pine,
a turtle perched,
and made her abode.

whilst i stood in the room
folding laundry
and singing,
an elegant owl swooped in,
looked straight at me,
peaceful and wise,
blinked,
and went for the tree.

the owl grasped the turtle
in its talons
and flew.

 

i would catch the turtle
and replace her to her perch –
again,
and again,
and again,
i tried –

snatching back from the air,
and returning to cozy twig caves,
the most docile of painted things.

 

the game played on,

 

but the owl persisted.

 

something had drawn me away,

 

and upon my return,
i found the hearth screen slashed
in two, straight, talon-tears,
and laid low,
and crooked on the ground.

the flue lay open, too;
its handle dangled
like a loose metal ribbon
twixt the bricks.

 

both the owl

and the turtle

were gone.

 

∴

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

 

is the heart like a glass
that once broke,
could not be mended?

 

what an unjust maker
would construct us thus.

 

the world would then be treacherous
for the fragile
inevitability
of all of us.

 

do not say,
i pray,
that my heart is so amorphous,

and though solid,
never sets,

 

let it be a fleshy thing
that bleeds,
and sings,
and heals regrets.

 

let it, please,
get stronger
as a muscle in the gym

when used,
and pushed,
and slightly torn,

a mightier,
meatier,
mettle
is born.

∴

 

 

---