shifting sands grains unable to be grasped slipping through fingers sieve of my existence footprints vanishing in vain trying to leave an imprint, fingerprints fossilizing
as I watch sea drops dry on shells shells of mankind displayed non-selves on shelves
shifting painted shapes offer to take me away only to lead to the next drifting cumulous cloud lateral when I need to be higher homeward bound
shifting sands I open my hand spread my fingers wider I know what the answers are not to feel the silk is to feel nothing caught but sensory strokes the void in the curve of my palm no trail found to my entrance into the sea
saltwater can’t sting when the wounds are too far beneath the body’s surface
arms open I invite the above in home- sick let me know I am not
what if i’m a drifter not meant to float alone but to feel to the core every spirit i choose to know in brief encounters but bare soul to soul stripped to the glow
fearless deep strokes of wounds and hopes
what if my home is collectively each
what if I crave the companionship of such fleeting impressions that layer like honey – raw, sweet
I suppose somewhere along the way, this became about me, this once person conditioned to inwardly mistreat, neglect, bury prematurely at sea,
too busy keeping them afloat in puddles, sacrificing my soul for others,
in the lows between lowers in that life unstable, vows before God to remain (abusive) spouse faithful,
the escape-clause contingencies blurred, repercussions lingering in the years after,
children ten years apart, and always children, I keep on giving, Silverstein tree down to the trunk, instead of remaining to be sat upon, I leave my roots to carry on,
re-sprouting from acorns and seeds to reach the end of land as a sunflower, brazen yet desperate, in the sand to be plucked by a youthful hand
and sprinkled into the surf for the mermaids to collect and bring to the site of where I left myself and resurrect
from Davy Jones’ Locker the Heart of the Sea still alive in its keeper: me.
The ducks and swans gather to greet at the pond where I used to weep.
Donned now in floral dresses and locks long enough to dance freely with the breeze, (he always said neither looked good on me…) the reflection I see is another plot twist in my ongoing story
with an ending yet to be written but full of God’s golden glory, His daughter’s strength ever-growing.
Somewhere along the way, somehow this did become about me. Another struggle lifted, another soulful healing.
In the setting sun, I reflect upon the journey and look so forward to the fulfilling of my legacy.
I will never drown, for you can only hold me down so long, years but moments in the eternity of dawn.
Hope unconditionally floats from the buoyancy of love.
This is my story, long overdue to be self-sung.
I actually do like to sing those soulful songs. (He always changed the station if I even began to hum…)
Little tree on the mountaintop beneath sun’s celestial reach, planted purposely at the very peak or actively advancing toward dreams from a seed, more mighty to me than the mountain itself and all of the tallest trees beneath looking up.
Little tree on the mountaintop Biblically reminiscent, perhaps a Jesus story never told, or the Lord’s seemingly futile reach to have us remember this precious given life’s goals.
Who is changed upon the descent from the mountain? Some things seem to remain as shocking as Moses’.
When I pray, I always add the addendum, “…if it is in accordance with Your plan,” for more than what I plea for, superseded, I wish for us to remain always in His hands.
I trust whatever may happen, although I may not understand, will come with a needed lesson, a necessary occurrence in the process of the destiny in becoming once again
who I am.
I was reminded of this when a partial wishie lent further wisdom for reflection.
Sometimes the biggest wishes should not be spent, eyes closed, all at once, in one breath and direction
but patiently spaced out in seeds, part self-initiated action, part angel-breath breezes.
Sometimes what we desire most needs time to germinate to non-perfection and be released in parts for better chances of fruitful multiplication.
I am always careful in what I wish and pray for: I don’t want to get in the way of what He has in store.
I try not to be too cautious in taking action with soulful instinct, for the surest way to get lost is to pass up what He hands me.
I do close my eyes to bring up a whisper from my soul that launches another seed of hope…
Vulnerable, fragile,
fleeting, yet trusting,
May petals humbly open
to receive Dawn’s blessing,
and I do not take for granted
this holy witnessing:
upon bird wing and song,
Hope’s daily lifting.
It’s hard to decipher which is me, which is you, when we alternate positions, both always as one and the gentlest of blooms.
Sometimes it is the shadows that give the needed solace; in tender loving form, one protectively umbrellas an ecliptic respite.
We are the same: each crease in the petal a similar quondam- but-unable-to-be-forgotten story, memory, that will not become us, for our souls’ DNA seeps from hearts of gold and velvet touches,
for all purity is innocence, all white efflorescence, divine; pollen an offering to keep seeding time,
and ours is upon the horizon, finally in sight. Let’s keep orbiting there, as each other’s faith and support, strength, and hope, floral lifeline.
Laura Denise 