The walls,
built of plaster and lathe,
hold secrets within their cracks.
130 years ago,
the first family gathered wide-eyed,
wrapped in shawls and wool coats.
Mother cradled baby;
father rotated key.
I wish I could lean against the wall,
ear to plaster,
and hear their heartbeats–first steps
into the candle-lit warmth of 34 Congress Street.
Each collection of words is bottled up in a colored glass,
sealed with a cork,
and sent down the stream.
The jars of
red, green, purple, blue,
float away with the current,
maneuvering around rocks
and surfing through rapids.
One or two may break,
letting water intermingle with the paper and ink,
slowing erasing the message,
leaving shining glimpses of color in the darkness.
One may get trapped,
lodged between fallen branches,
and never opened.
Two might be lucky,
and found downstream by seeking eyes.
The words written,
intimately shared from one stranger to another,
leave traces of humanity
absorbed in the skin of their fingertips.
I walk toward the security gates
feeling the weight of a thousand stars on my chest.
Ahead of me is a father-daughter duo—
a father, dropping his daughter off;
a daughter, leaving her father.
I feel connected to them,
understanding the situation too well—
the mixed feelings of nervousness, sadness—
a different type of aching.
He walks her to the start of the security line,
making sure she has her toothbrush and plane ticket,
reassuring her that it will be a smooth trip.
He looks nervous and full of sorrow,
hands shoved in his jean pockets;
she looks dejected and tired.
She walks away looking at her phone
and he watches her the entire time,
moving as close as possible to the black rope separating them.
I wish I knew more of their story,
observing it unfold parallel to mine.
I follow her through the line,
watching her approach the guard,
ticket in hand.
She passes with ease and throws a quick, worried glance over her shoulder
towards her father whose face is too far away to interpret.
I smile with crinkled, blurry eyes at the story unfolding,
step up to the guard, hand over my ID, pull down my face mask,
and thank the stranger.
Cold air seeps into her skin,
chilling her blood, bones
creaking from the jostling car ride.
The forest stretches before her–
the trees transition from deciduous to coniferous
as the sky grows darker and the road longer.
A surge of past lives greet her on the way,
an emotionally intense experience
while travelling down the gravel road
that cradled the feet of hundreds of wayfarers before.
Each wayfarer, story
settling behind her eyelids like a motion picture–
but more tragic and more beautiful.
They all adventured to find truth,
as if capturing it would bring a new sense of warmth.
She searches too, but not as intently
for she understood a certain bias in her.
The search for truth,
as she saw it,
was difficult for we don’t always accept what is true.
Truth, ours
isn’t always the universe’s,
merely a fragment–
a glimmer of something honest.
Looking down at this dirt road,
a sister to the one that carried her here,
She feels a shift.
The dragonflies,
feeling the shift too,
soar beside her as she follows the path
of wilder things–
each one gliding,
accepting the truth of her.
I came across a sea of blue vinyl,
its stagnant ripples formed ridges
for shadows to slide
over
and
down
into the valleys.
I came across a sea of blue vinyl,
dark
moody
and harboring a deep sorrow—
as if beneath its surface,
a thousand dying souls
writhed in the darkness.
I came across a sea of blue vinyl,
its creeping filaments reaching towards the land
hungry in its wait to consume the hive.
do you think turtles would climb on my back
to sunbathe,
acting as paperweights
till I sank to the bottom of the lake
among the carcasses of symbionts,
slowly to be engulfed in algae
and feed the very system that killed me?
The honeysuckles smell sweet as I cross the bridge,
reminiscing about the past.
I remember my old cat,
his sweet demeanor,
the rare snuggles,
his thumbs—
the head bumps.
I hear my friends laughing about snails and gazebos.
I feel their hearts beating in time with mine, knowing
we are still connected over this distance.
I see my grandmum basking in the sun as
my brothers and I race around the playground.
The air fills with our laughter as I walk further on.
Friendly faces stroll pass,
some with dogs—
others, children.
A bird flies overhead;
babies chirp in the tree to my right.
My fears rise to the surface
as if the peace I found was a calamity.
I pause and sit
down on a bench to stare across the park, looking
for something to settle my quickening pulse.
The water twinkles in the afternoon sun—
a shimmering beauty.
The Beatles play in my headphones, drawing
a smile across my face.
The worries dissipate in the breeze.
Another bird catches a grasshopper
and the wind teases the trees.
The japanese maple is growing taller every day.
It’s leaves a moody red, drawing attention
away from the mighty oaks that stand like twins
just beyond it.
I feel less alone as I sit—
this bench, dedicated to Lewis lawrence, provides
me comfort from their perspective.
The kitchen lights are soft against the floral wallpaper
that hangs on every wall. The flowers, twining
from baseboard to window and window to ceiling,
play games in the twilight.
Some think it’s too much—
the flowers whirling to and fro with such vitality
that one could assume their smirking;
if flowers could smirk.
I find it comforting, watching
the flowers dance around, imagining
their smirking faces as the music turns faster and faster—
all the while waiting for the tea to steep.
We drove steadily north
anticipating the red mountain’s snare,
but the fading light played tricks
and grand purple gates beckoned us forth.
A warm glow emanated from the kitchen
as a family greeted us with strong embraces,
risking disease to share their love.
Stories over dinner
eased my soul and games
made us all smile, minds
dimming after the long drive.
Night changed to dawn as we nestled
under old quilts of flowers and birds
breathing in the universal scent of home.
Our days—
hours consumed by stone skipping,
sheep hugs, musicals, family—
left me feeling tired and whole.
That short week,
the three still-born lambs,
and a chosen family of love
reminded me of
the importance of life.
Sky received a grave responsibility at a very young age. She, the Soul Keeping Yearling (or Sky, for short), was the youngest of generations of beings tasked with protecting the human race. For eons, her family cared for the lowly beings, understanding the overwhelming importance of their job. Sky block out the dangerous, dark, expansive galaxy that lied outside of Earth’s atmosphere. Her blue-radiance disfigured the troublesome space and brought joy to the meek humans. She recognized the severity of her job and eagerly did it every day. Luckily, she had friends to keep her company; Rocky played with her when the humans slept, Beam exaggerated her magnificent color during their days, and Nimb gave her shelter when ailing.
Sky loved every century of her job; alas, she grew old. More and more frequently, Nimb invited his cousins, the Thundersons, to protect the humans while Sky recovered from increasing conditions. It was time for Sky to step down from the position. She protected the life-forms below for so long, even when they threatened her with rockets, probed at her secrets, and tried to capture her essence. Sky, weakened, gracefully faded away under the cover of Rocky, allowing the new protector to take her place.
So It Goes 