Soulstice
happy midsummer
to all the witches, hippies
and heathens galore
Baked into the Matrix:
what, i ask myself
must i do to instill a sense
of gratitude
in you then
i stop and realize
this life will only be meaningful
to you
when you are ready
what
i can do
is invite you to walk with me
share a few moments
or longer
together we can revere
those still small whisperings
found in the everyday
Oh, the joy of a five-pound Chihuahua
greeting me each morning
with snuggles and begging
for a tummy rub.
The early morning light
shines through my window
greets me with an invitation
to come outside,
to soak in the Vitamin D
for five minutes, a bath of dopamine.
Jasmine prances around,
sniffs each weed, each blade
of grass,
I welcome the new day’s
undertakings and mishaps,
I contemplate what is
and what is not
and what is to come
spreading feathers
filling wings with wind’s blessing
defying gravity
the ultimate act of faith must be
the belief you will be kept aloft
above the dangers of cat and snake,
that you will find a gently swaying
branch, a bit of food and fluff
for your brood. And all that,
never having heard of
the lilies of the field
the birds of the air
or even the mustard seed
Standing in line waiting, watching
Children in front of me taking their
Small, white paper cups, tipping them
Into their mouths, hearing the crunch
And seeing the smile as they tasted
The sweetness of the end to polio
My eyes, livid, look back at me.
A stranger, reflected in the mirror.
Undeniably, she is me,
but there is something different
in her appearance.
I had not realized the change.
My face gaunt, cheekbones sharpened.
My brown-golden eyes,
once sparkling like amber,
now dull and flat.
Thin lips, drawn tight.
My eyes, livid, at the reflection.
Looking at the stranger before me.
As if the grief and misery
had eaten me alive;
as if I were starved.
Hungry, not for food,
but joy and hope.
We’ll meet in 3 days so I read
your work with gratitude.
You show me a mother’s heart,
the courage of a granddaughter,
disappointment with your words
and a 44 year old love song
in neat stanzas, lines that descend
the page, flow like a gentle waterfall,
couplets that excite my imagination
before they surprise with a fresh turn.
I’d recognize each of your voices
wherever I might find them–
crumpled pages, discarded.
lines your read to me in my sleep
or in beautifully bound books.
Your skill always amazes me,
teaches me the way to poetry.
I gave you a poem,
appropriately beautiful,
speaking in warm words
and soft images,
But you asked for another,
one that makes you blush,
makes your mouth water
and eyes glaze over.
Is 70 too old
to feel the urge,
a flash flood in the dessert,
swift, and so quickly passed?
Or is it a time to linger
in the heat, sand burning
the bottoms of your feet,
and round rocks roll
with the current
of a slow moving stream.
