I sit on the new mown grass,
even though it’s hard to get back up,
because the smell is intoxicating.
The maple tree I rest my back against
is wide, sturdy, and rigid.
I watch, as the dog listens.
Runs.
Turns on a dime.
He is in his element -
the sheep are his focus,
the man’s voice, his guide.
The sheep are on a full run.
Away. Come bye. Walk on. That’ll do.
Resting, panting, watching,
Waiting for the next time to go to work
and fly like the wind.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC
My body is made for
giving hugs,
giving love,
kissing boo-boos,
and catching bugs.
Walking and dancing,
sitting around,
reading a book,
not making a sound.
My body is made
for having a baby and
feeding her soul.
Holding her hand,
helping her reach her goals.
It is not here for you to judge,
for you to laugh at
or look at and nudge
the person next to you.
I have so much to offer,
so much to give.
I will not be defined by your narrow-mindedness
I am going to live.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
I hear the screen door slam
and look to see who is there.
No one.
Was it the wind?
Was it my imagination?
Or was it you, walking into the house
to see what has become of the place you left
so many years ago.
The people have changed, grown older.
The dog is new, different from the one
you played fetch with.
The furniture is different, the wall colors updated.
But the love. The love is still here.
The memories are still here.
The aching heart is still here.
The adult/child is still here.
Waiting.
Longing to see you again and say,
“I love you daddy”
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
They say,
when life gives you lemons,
make lemonade.
But what do you do
when bushels of lemons
surround you?
When life seems so
overwhelming.
so scary,
so oppressing,
that each day is a struggle?
You find people,
Joyful people.
Positive people.
Sweet people.
And you make lemonade –
gallons and gallons.
And then you have
a party.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Oh, the many feet
that have trod these stairs.
White,
red, and
brown.
Walking, running, skipping,
down and up, up and down.
Runaway slaves hid ‘neath the ‘case
waiting for that friendly voice
to say the coast was clear, and
they could travel father north
or stay in the village near.
The soldiers with their rifles,
going off to fight.
Women left on the homefront,
comforting children through the night.
Happy times, sad times,
through oh so much.
These stairs have carried families
up and down, down and up.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:43 AM UTC