A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies
- it made my heart go to her
until I hope her into being
and I look into her eyes -

eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime
with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils
with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress,
dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations
to know our dance, but to write her own song -

a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in
flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache
and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms
in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries
but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way -

her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings,
tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late
and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea.
But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life
and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that -

that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home
that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph
that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide,
and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song
and dance.

I walked through woods all dressed in white,
With dust of snow , my wounds felt light.
A crow appeared in falling snow,
Its silence chilled my heart below.
It perched upon a hemlock bare,
And all my hopes dissolved in air.
Beneath its gaze, so cold and free,
I found myself , dead, beneath the tree.

It was supposed to be us
Our dreams, our goals, our lives
Our hopes, our future, our work
The family we were supposed to have
The fears we were supposed to overcome
The trials we were supposed to endure
The love we were supposed to save
It was supposed to be us
But now?
It's just me

A shredding. A tearing of it.
Pointed finger stirring through it like a child does with milk skin
in a hot drink.
There the hopes, too blind to look into the eyes of, scurry away like frightened silverfish.
Who's? Who's are they? Surely not mine.

Are we but pawns on a chessboard
That God just moves about haphazardly?
Or are we placed strategically;
And through God’s plans can claim: “Checkmate!”

It wasn’t you…

You were exactly
as you are.

It was me,
who turned your smile into a sunrise,
and blamed you,
when it rained.

☔️