Turning 8

she gazes left,

looking

 elsewhere,

leery

of someone else’s dream

she stands, legs close
boots tall and laced and tight and gray.
her world is gray,
daguerreotype, skin brushed pink, lips a shadowy red.
her starched white dress and 
grayed white sweater
tell of once upon a time beauty,
stilled into black and white and gray,
like when all the color went out of the world
and it had to be painted back in.

she leans against a gray wall
hands tucked behind her
feet tight on the floor.
she gazes left,
looking
elsewhere,
leery
of someone else’s dream.
what she sees tightens her jaw,
gauging the pressure of self control needed to survive there,

survive here.

a shadow shifts behind her,
the empty that remains of her time before,

(A monkey in a tree, a cat ready to pounce, tea with bears,
boots muddied until full and it is better to go barefoot,
piles and piles of clothes in the colors and textures of love: 
rose lamé, chartreuse tulle, gold silk)

it reminds her that she vacated,
left a shadow yearning 
for her body back.

An owl sits behind her,
bejeweled and silent,
in the forest of her knowing, 
a few feet from her heart,
quietly radiating
the truth of her
being:

“no matter how hard you try”
she whispers without words,
“you can’t forget me.”

Poem: Learning to Let Go

Learning to Let Go

What if, for a little bit,

I slowed the fast things down.

What if, for a little bit,

I rested,

knowing that I am held,

by these trees,

these birds,

this sunlight,

soil,

chair,

moment.

What if, for a little bit, 

I didn’t have to hold 

this bit in my mouth.

I didn’t have to survive.

I didn’t have to be 

the person I think

my parents, my children,

want me to be.

What if, 

for a little bit

I let go

(is that even possible?)

and settled all of that, 

all of that, 

to the ground.

Then, for a moment,

maybe a breath,

I get a glimpse of a lightness of being,

a campfire in the distance 

in a forest,

almost not there behind the trees,

but breathing nonetheless.

For a moment,

I caught a glimpse of what is,

what could be—

as I learn to let go and let go and let go and let go.

This

He falls back
a trust fall into the arms of the unknown
his body sinks into itself
into the watery breath of mother
of ocean
of time
and he falls for an eternity
that lasts no longer than the shutter of his eyes

awakened
he sees a face
arising from a pastel pink and blue
and golden mist
a dark face
a chestnut
with eyes
peering deep
asking questions as old as time

he implodes

petals of plum tress and women in pink leather jackets
and handkerchief jeans
with life lines embroidered across them
intricate swirls 
shape shifting
into dimensions that are not known to his human self
no way to translate
the script of spirit and love and eternity

all settles onto the surface of a quietly flowing river
pink plum petals letting go into a gentle rippling song
caressed by lanterns of orange light
and the soft voices of people strolling along the banks
the laughter
that pulls him out of the dream
and into her eyes

“What truth
did you mean to tell me?”

he brushes his hand across her wrist
like chiffon
a butterfly
a petal

“This” he says. “This”.