~

(old beach fence)

pickets set,
once in symmetry,
straight and white...
young teeth;
now in weathered state,
discolored by
the salty spray;
rust-formed rivers
trickle down from nails,
barely tethered
to its frail frame.
in places, shifting sand,
overruns its posts,
like a winding score,
it's rhythm lagging,
holding yet its notes;
fulfilling purpose,
like an old musician,
though beaten down
by wind and storm
the music strong,
sometines pouring out
in gentle song,
oftimes belting.
out in haunting tune;
lyrics pointing,
shaking voice
still croons,
the heart still beats,
though the mind
is drifting on;
like an old,
weathered,
beach fence...
has not lost
it's relevance!

~

*post script.

in conversation with a beautiful mind, about her photo of an old beach fence.  she says, “I love the loneliness in that picture, though I'm not sure why.”  his answer just a hopeful guess, “i know why... it speaks of purpose and usefulness, despite age and state of repair; it speaks of direction, despite its apparent randomness... too oxymoron-ish to not be drawn in...”  conversation ’tween two friends, conceiving thoughts, in particular her encouraging response with these words... “You should make that into a poem! And yes, that is exactly it!" yes indeed, she is a beautiful mind, this precious, poet friend of mine!!

▪○●☆○●♡●○●♡◇♡●○●♡●○☆●○▪

A rare thing, my Mother's touch.
Though it was she I desired,
her babies I lovingly embraced.

Letting us make messes.
Be boisterous.
Expected independence.
“You do it, you learn it”
Helped us raise each other,
myself in the lead.

Our imaginary
world, rarely interrupted,
allowed us the freedom
to entertain ourselves.
Mom was not one to coddle,
but to patiently teach.
Cooking, gardening,
care giving.
To plant a tree,
and properly prune.
Create a thriving home
for salamanders.
Names of plants and trees.
Cloud formations.
how to patch up bloodied
knees and noses.

My Mother knew how to
transport a station wagon
filled to the brim with kids.
Provided us with masking
tape to square off our own
territory, creating safe
havens from point A to B.

She was fearless during
that overwhelming time.
Chaotic household of
youngins’ needs.
Teens tempers, mixed
with yearnings and desires
She taught us perseverance.
Eyes forward
No matter... calm or storm.

Her demeanor,
devoted and gentle.
Yet, fierce in determination.
An educated “No bones about it”
woman. A nurse.
Cute in a clean,
crisp natural way.
A woman of extraordinary
capabilities, rarely
comfortable with a compliment.

Not one to linger in a
moment of luxury.
To be soft and silly.
Or settle in for a deep cuddle.
The way she was raised
amongst her kin of many,
being the youngest.
from a different time.

Regardless of my perspective,
She loved enough to
make 5 children.
Provided food.
and kept us clean.
Encouraged the decoration of
our bedrooms to our
personal delight.
Allowed dogs and bunnies
to share our lives.
Insisted on the five food groups
at each evening's family meal.

These days, I cherish the hand
picked cards always mailed on
time for occasions and
holidays. ThankYou notes for
every kindness shown her way.
With her gardens beautifully
tended, herbs carefully harvested
and patiently dried, at Christmas
she labeled recycled spice bottles
collected from here and there.

Yesterday I gathered them,
Small glass vessels in hand.
My name and the date,
meticulously written by
her hand on white labels.
Over time, I have
saved them all.
Ingredients left intact.

My Mother's language of
love lined up in front of me,
these Little Bottles,
a culmination of the years.
Aromatic herbs
tenderly tucked inside.
I understood then,
I had been
Held in Mother's
arms all along...
I just never knew how to
fully accept her embrace.

▪○●☆○●♡●○●♡◇♡●○●♡●○☆●○▪

Copyright © 2016.
Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved

Surely
The day will be light
Darkness will be night
The wind will blow
While rivers flow
The sun will glow
As night creatures lay low
Why trouble incessantly
With what happens tomorrow
As long as earth remains earthly
All will come and go