Tag: growth

sandcastles

children run along the shore,

their laughter heard over gentle waves.

they wade into the icy water,

unfazed by its sting.

their voices are full of energy

carried by the wind.

you can see joy in their eyes,

their innocence reminding us of something we once had.

when did that change?

when did we start to feel the ache in the air

and notice the cold settling inside us?

when did we pull back from the water

and touch it with cautious toes?

almost as if we are afraid of what it might remind us of.

when did we stop making sandcastles?

and forgiving the tide for washing them away.

when did we forget how to let ourselves get lost

in the quiet joy of pretending?

colors

My body holds memories.
I sense time slipping by
through my fingertips.
Sometimes I lie awake
and trace the lines
that reveal my story
in the thickness
of my gut.
or I wander in
my dreams
looking for colors
that belong to things
I’ve forgotten.

the old tree

A tree stands and waits with patience.
Its trunk is full of gnarls,
like the fingers of an old person.
It stands, faded by the sun,
having seen many years go by.
Days and nights
move around it.
We look up at the blue sky,
so rich and clear,
and sometimes forget what we truly need.
We forget to be patient

Get out of the way
old tree!
I want to see the sky.

But the tree remains patient.
During the day,
it marks the earth
with the movement
of the sun
across the sky,
never rushing,
just letting things be,
moment by moment.
At night, it stands
almost like a guard,
keeping watch,
waiting.
It never complains,

You are gray today,
bring back
Your blue sky!

If it cannot
mark the earth
like a sundial,
it simply waits,
gnarled and old,
just as it did yesterday
and as it will tomorrow.

a word

When I was a child, I copied
the way you moved
and I would ask,
What should I call you?

I tried to find
a word I hadn’t
learned yet,

a word beyond
what a child could understand.
It was something unfamiliar,

Now, as an adult, I still
find myself asking,
What should I call you?

There are no gestures now.
I don’t understand
That’s what it means to grow older.

This is a shadow,
and this, too,
is part of life.

fly straight

Today I learned what geese talk about
when they fly,
when they leave for the winter.
I said,
“No, it can’t be,
They look like they have everything,
They really seem to have it all
all figured out.”
from the ground,
gazing up,
up, up, up,
Their direction looks so certain,
Their flight seems so pure,
as if they live with a real purpose.
But now I think I understand what they say
when they are migrating,
when they are flying away.
They are not talking about the view.
They are not talking about the endless horizon, either.
They do not talk about a life of freedom.
Instead, this is what they say:
“I need to keep moving,
If I stop, I will start to think!”
“Will I be attractive
When I get older?”
“I think I’m lovable,
but maybe I’m not.”
“Am I necessary to this company
Or just kidding myself?”
“I pushed away another beautiful soul
and I made it look like their choice.”
I stood there on the ground,
barefoot,
with grass between my toes,
looking up,
feeling surprised and amazed
as they sang their songs overhead.
How could that happen?
But part of me already knew
and part of me understood
Those golden arrows you see can only fly straight
for just so long.

bare branches

how far do bare branches reach?

i sometimes think about whether they remember where they have been.

they reach out to touch the moon.

it must be a long journey,

farther than the wind could ever carry

our human stories.

when the branches return,

they come back changed.

they never come back the same.

their limbs point out,

reaching for something they cannot name.

they reach out toward the stars

and the scattered bits of light.

they stretch into the darkness,

into old memories.

and when morning comes,

they are changed.

never quite the same.

their bare branches have witnessed something sacred,

they have brushed against the divine.