Tag: life

somehow

These are fragments of life;
I’m not sure any of this makes sense;
Still, these pieces seem to fit together somehow.

Somehow.

And what of it?

How do we connect the dots?
All of this,
every bit of it!

We might call it life,
But how do we come to accept these pieces
And make them whole?

So what does it all mean?
What are we supposed to make of it?

Have you seen
My thinning hair?

I have too.
I know you’ve noticed.
And,
My wrinkles or my tired eyes?

“Ok, yes,
these are pieces.
I understand.”

Somehow,
We’ll keep insisting,
that somehow,

they all fit together.

 

 

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?

ink

i dreamed last night.

i couldn’t find my pen.

wait, that’s not quite right.

i didn’t really lose it.

it was just hiding from me.

that’s different.

i couldn’t write anything.

my fingers felt tangled.

and without it,

nothing made sense

at all.

maybe this sounds confusing.

but it isn’t.

in my dream, i woke up

and saw the pen

was in my bed, and it had burst

now i was covered

in thick ink

that flowed over my body

and eventually into my mouth.

when i tried to speak,

i gurgled

and jumbled

and tangled thoughts

spilled out of my mouth.

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.

still.

​a small candle sits close by

giving off just enough light

to brighten the room.

it gives off a little warmth

and glows softly in the corner.

i left the curtains open

and decided to leave them that way

outside, everything is perfectly still.

heavy snow hushes

everything around me.

even the snow itself

falls without a sound,

leaving no trace

on this quiet night

the world now

feels monochromatic:

white snow and dark tree branches.

white snow and darkening tree branches

it feels like the world

is turning inward,

gently closing in.

how many times

have i truly been present

like this before,

like i am tonight?

have i ever held

my breath, quiet,

and myself, just waiting

for the sound of daylight

to fade away?

for the sound

of daylight

to drift quietly away like

the faint warmth left behind by a candle.

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.