I wait for her to enter sleep, the door left open to my world. I hear her cries and let wind blow her tears from her dreams into a sudden sun shower. Hope beckons her near me. I’m no longer in her room, her mentor. The light burned too brightly and my time came to follow it up the tunnel to the great unknown. She’s not ready for so much tragedy. Fires swept her away yet she grew back stronger with each spark that exchanged green for black.
This night she came to me as I stood by the white horse fence. I emerged from a barn to see her standing bewildered on the far side of a pond that appeared from nowhere but these things magically transpire like my face, beautiful and young on thus side of the light.
Standing next to her just by thinking it so, she felt my touch and let out the music of pure joy and of the deepest pain at once. Taking her hand I tell her it’s her time to fly and mine had passed away. Then we walked in Dreamtime for hours but minutes later it was done.
I kissed her cheek and told her a secret she won’t recall in words. But she feels it – I can know only that much. It’s all I’m allowed. Of course I left her a piece of silk – the colors of sunsets and sunrises at once. The scarf she lost as a young girl. 16 with nowhere to go but to a home lined with men but not love. She found a way to paint the sky with her heart song, to which I taught her the worlds so long ago.
The scarf blew into her bedroom window, now hanging in the room where she learned to heal those who could not recover but only find comfort in the laying of hands. In laying my hand in hers that night, she was able to wake up and lose her pain so she could continue what began the day she learned the words to the song of her heart.
I whispered,”sing.” And like a phoenix she let me go to be reborn- she fell from the dream like a baby bird from a nest and with the sky colored scarf in her talons she painted the sunrise all on her own.
https://lifeafter50forwomen.com/2020/05/18/what-do-you-see-30-18-may-2020/ (For the visually challenged reader, the image shows a young girl standing…Sharing responses to the prompt, What do you see; Jen- “Whispers” ©J.E.Goldie – What do you see # 30 – 18 May 2020, Christine Bialczak- What do you …
Bury me amongst the trees
Where redwoods overlook the sea
From atop a crossed mountain
Where my body will quicken
From flesh into sand.
Underneath the needle-bed
Blanket, the fibers of my hair weave
A way through the wind-filled leaves.
Heat my voice with borrowed sun
Which once kissed my cheeks
Where freckles reached to meet.
You now hear my broken chords
Faintly in the the distance unmoored
Tasting the salted shore. Safely clean
I lay down on a million fine grains of sand
Not feeling myself again I repeat
To no one: I am an empty vessel.
I’ll still wake every morning
Habitually, my hands still sleep
Parting the fitted sheets aways,
Long gone I still reach after you.
I am the water, then the dew
Maturing into a pinguid mist.
The palms clap and sway to
Conduct the band at noon
To play a song of our bequest.
The hour’s imminent.
Time to ride a wicked dream on
A silk weaved carpet twisted
With last night’s ghostly breath.
Come take inventory of my remains
Should the tree mark me no more.
The lumber that’s become of me
Taken over by the shore. I am a house
Now – shelter for a family to whom you
Lost me once again. My soul holds up
The walls now, my legs hammered
Into floorboards, arms encircle
Each bedroom where the dormers rest.
My fingers lace together to build
A painted white front porch,
That’s my hips now a swing
Hung there, under the eaves.
Look up to see my head holds high
A roof; my back’s now the front door
My eyes frame All the windows, my heart beats
In the kitchen. My birds left the
Forest knowing where my mouth now sings
And the woodpecker that lived inside my trunk
Hollowed out my attic in the spring.
Let me stand strong and steady
For at least a hundred years.
By then, long gone, you built your own
And our lives live on, unworldly yet eternally.
Looking down at the rubble of what’s
Left of my body in the demolition heap.
What at all might grow from me who once
You buried underneath a tree?
Let me now burn someone’s hands
Someone lit afire from my plight.
It’s cold outside where I once stood
In the trees and dark of night
And I’ll burn vast and luminous
My spirit gives newborn light.
Riding passenger side snapping right,
I’m down in front stealing long exposures.
From the back seat our youth sits
Mocking us with instant polaroids.
Destroyed pictures of minutes and memory
Precious and precarious slip a stone
At once here and at once gone.
Right under the driver breaks hard and higher
Up another mile, silently stealing all we pass.
As if it meant nothing, had no value.
Yet we never stop to salute the flowers –
All wilds and yellows and purples.
The foothills’ shoulders grow peonies
Upon sunshine golden with military ranks.
How jagged time?
We spend ours climbing again as
Eventide approaches us.
Stealing the light
Squinting and teasing Every photographer’s eye.
The lens escapes the fight as fists fly
Above us rung the first punch
Headliners: the over-real versus the unbelievable.
Then we drop down tearing around
The Summit dragging the day with us.
With us flat then right over on the side.
Buckshot sprays whitetail from
Underneath the wheels,
My skin and bones chill fast underneath
Blankets just a quarter mile thin –
Count the microclimates in a 14 mile exposure.
My imagined assignment, anyway.
Inertia now driving our ascension
Finally dousing my focus.
Yet I am pacified by
Deep coastal royal blue velvet,
And by the courtly cape
Of dense silver fog.
Trees, reach in and take my attention
Lost in the sky and yet at home.
Away with the little brick foxes
Already started by the drooling hounds,
Running in distant golden broken lines
Shrinking to a pointed index
Finger of bent redwood lumber.
Penciled between the knotted trees
Escaping our eyes
They write letters to us
To one another, to anyone.
I imagine the trees alone love themselves.
Writing in dead languages those
Modern towers of Babylon
Without oral tradition
No monks or followers to take dictation
The mighty ones tie rings around
Paper and papyrus of their own making.
They, like me, can write their own stories.
Distant deamons dance to the music of the eventide,
Whose eardrums thump and pop from slight descents.
Mercies clear the stares and the macabre glances.
And up ahead the night hides just around
The voluptuous Earth’s curves.
Yet she shakes off the road upon her hip
Langushing and lounging
Laughing at all the forsaken highways.
You snap me awake.
My hypnotic state undone
By our quick duel and I, only me –
I roll one window down
With enough sense to know
The party orange of evening presents
A moment for exposure
Showing the night undone
By the simplest flash
As we find a space and stall the motor,
King and queen of the hills
Announced by snare drums and trumpets.
Goodbye, twisted bruised skin of eventide.