I’m just here
in the corner –
I watch,
I see,
but no one sees me.
They pace the floor,
drink their tea
and count the hours.
The world turns and
I am still,
more solid somehow
than before.
It is an enviable position,
to be invisible.
They say it’s the fate
of all women:
to disappear.
Between the moon and stars and me,
I see
endless possibilities,
a path of many ways.
In that quiet
when the rest of the world sleeps,
there’s the time my mind can play:
scraps of paper
filled with stories,
starts and ends
and lovers meeting,
a thousand little pauses of
sound and silence.
This is my trade –
and it’s a fair one, I think –
rest for writing
and creating instead of bed,
It’s just a different kind of dreaming,
to be awake
in that space flanked by dusk and day.
I’ve never felt more
sure and steady.
(Not that I’m asking
for trouble or tears…)
Yes, for the first time
this year,
I think…
no, I know –
I feel totally ready.
Today, I could say
I wish you well,
and in a way,
I do.
I wish you a full well,
and flowing rivers,
babbling streams and
shoes sopping wet with rain.
I wish you well,
and so I wish you water.
I wish for you green, green grass
and heavy, rustling leaves.
I wish you clouds and fog,
evening storms
and drizzles in the morning.
I wish you water.
I wish water for me, too.
Dull,
brown,
dry as dust,
the trees and ground
cry out for rain.
The skies tease and threaten,
rushes of wind
and clouds of gray.
How long, I wonder,
can it possibly go on this way?
But the drought
goes on
another day.
One breath.
Two breaths.
A day at a time.
And what a funny thing –
to wait and dream
this way.
I never thought of myself as
a mother,
and now,
I wonder who I’ll be in an hour,
a month, a year,
how I’ll change
and stay the same
once she’s here.
I’m excited to meet us both.
I can feel it, even now,
in the cool night air
and the subtle shift in the evening light,
and in the gentle way the leaves seem to sigh
and say,
“We are tired, and ready to let go.”
As one season waves goodbye
and another prepares to cross the threshold,
I breathe it in and wait,
and know:
All things come in their own time.
The dark clouds roll in,
thick and heavy,
carried by ominous wind.
And we can only wait,
baited breath and ready.
Now is the season for storms.
Short story?
What short story?
Oh, yes, that was today.
Well, see,
owing to a total lack of coffee
and a brief hospital stay,
it’s going to have to wait.
But that’s okay,
and most important,
(at least for now)
everything is fine.
There will be time.
It’s been a little while since I’ve done one of Rebecca’s poetry challenges over at Fake Flamenco. July’s challenge is a good one! Here’s my entry:
How lucky
are the little birds
to fly –
unafraid,
perched high and serene,
unconfined.
If I could,
would I?
It remains to be seen.
But I can watch the world
from my own
perfect perch,
the nest I’ve made.
It’s not as big
as the sky,
but it’s
mine.
These are so much fun. 😊 If you’d like to participate, too, you’ve got until Sunday. Can’t wait to read what everyone submitted! It’s so cool to see all of the different perspectives on one theme.
