Category: #Renewal

Your Wings

image courtesy of wallpaperabyss.com

Dreams
	fulfilled and abandoned,
	the wistful whimsical ones of fantasy--

Tears
	fallen,
	dried long ago, leaving salt crusts behind,
and those never allowed to fall--
	

The skins of selves I used to be
	the wounded and scarred
	the shrunken down inside her skin
	the sacrificial to survival--



Take these things
I freely give,
adding all 
my wishes
my dreams
my hopes
for you.
Next,
Add all you want,
all you dream,
all you desire,
wish for and hope for
in your life 

Then weave of them a chrysalis 
bout yourself to cushion and protect
as you grow into your own skin.

Leave your chains of fear, 
your yoke of worries
with me.
I will bury them
deep inside my chest.

When you emerge,
your wings wet and beautiful,
you may perch upon
the branch of pride
growing from my soul
to flex and flutter your wings
until dry enough to fly,
beautiful as you have always been,
never to shrink
or curl away 
your wings again.

Morning Coffee

video is my own (this little one ventures closer every morning)
the coolness of morning enters

it drifts into the veins

chills feeling for a time—

when the hummingbird perches

to drink the fresh sugar water

I made for her that morning,

I smile.

Seeking

image courtesy of WP library 
I fled from days

of standing under your patchwork roof

offering no protection from the rain,

least of all my own rain pouring out of me,

threatening always to drown in its leave taking.



So I learned to float, flowing along the curves

others presented in my efforts to find

time, love, home, 

the back roads where berry bushes 

grow in abundance.

Yet I never tasted,

never picked any berries,

fresh off the branches.

Instead, I always found

the snakes hidden, lying in wait

beneath the berry bushes,

for the seeking,

and I, always bitten,

never learned my lessons

of serpents who lay in wait,

or the lessons of Eve,

I still sought,

in spite of the venom,

in spite of the bites—



I found the rains pouring out of me

once again

to travel on 

seeking

Prism






Image is my own





washed clean





in orange sunsets





drenched by





lavender sunrises





so the dust





and the grime





can no longer





cling inside or out





of a me





freed, freed





of all of you





I am the prism





of beauty





I always was





yet never was





with you





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
Freed
	


	

		

Image courtesy of http://www.allthatsinteresting.com





As a child,

I survived the explosion of dreams

that left hot greasy remnants

dripping down the four-inch squares

of avocado green ceramic tiles,

marring their mirror like shine.



As a grown woman,

I survived the eruption of dreams

that poured down an encasement of hot ash

over all of life’s plans in the moment of diagnosis,

leaving monumental statues of grief.



Thus, I chose to live

where silence drones,

a rumble in the ears.

Nothing left--

a hole, a void

made by echoes

of desires held long ago.



So, I have taken a corn broom

to dance with me

in time to music

only I can hear

to sweep away the dust, the cobwebs,

the fuss of other’s opinions and ideas

of me, my doings, my words.

Yes, from my words,

I shake loose all the years of dust,

the years of ash, the years of grease.

All words, oh, so many words

I never loosed upon the air

to float free upon the winds,

tumbling away, up, around,

then returning once more

to spring up as wildflowers

when things turn to green.



I begin to loose them now,

freed to scatter where they will,

root, spring up where they

find a place to rest.




	


	
	






	
	

		
Why I Have Always Wanted to Learn the Art of the Potter’s Wheel
	


	

		







Image courtesy of FireGallery.com






clay slapped on the wheel
shaped from spinning motion with
the control of hands

form, substance given
before the heat of the kiln
then give years of care

secured from breaking
ends in sharp edged shards broken:
mosaic in form