Heart Box Studio

Girl. Friend.

It’s been almost 8 years since she moved away.

This friend, this landscape architect, this dreamer of garden and sunlight’s white stroll.  

She is a designer, a planter, a grower of things.

And this gardener, she grew, her arms spread through windows, towards summer's white light, her heart unfurled through wooden carved doors, the fullness of family spilling over lawn and purple tendril Lenten rose.  

My littlest was nearing two months old, the deep quiet sleep of windshield wiper eyelids. And we stood in her driveway, her hands cupping my cheeks, the stone quiet with words caught in forever. It was early June, the day was kind, holding back its deep humidity sink. The intrusion of a fallen acorn, one severed leaf barreling in sea saw formation to the ground. And her hand held every morning we ever shared, coffee cups curled around thumb, thick baby knees trolling warmed sunlit floors, the burnished smile of a mother’s knowing, the tipped forehead, the full crescent shaped tears that reclined in her bathtub eyes. 

And the echo of emptiness as I drove away, the isolation taking hold, the words tucked into letters and phone calls, the faceless crutch of distance. A hand clutched, lifting roots from the warmth of soft soil, the pull, the tug, the empty pot wait.

And there have been so many phone calls, the marathon sofa pile of calf and knee, the grocery line pivot, the meandering of food aisles just to talk a bit longer, the tears caught in the holes meant for voice.

Last weekend I boarded a plane and found her waiting, her face squeezed between chauffeur nametags and folded hands perched beneath eyes, a beating reunion heart.

And I sunk back into the thick black soil of her friendship and felt the nourishment of her eyes looking back at me.

And I nestled close to her girls, once cradled between elbow and folded thigh, now long stalk legs and berry lips. I watched them as mother billowed above them, spreading her words with cursive smile approval, hips leaning into sinks, the mascara wand tilted over open eyes. The soft brush of femininity across cheeks and squinted foreheads. 

We took walks between softball games, found paths to keep our secrets. 

And I felt all of the wandering, the turn and spin, the over the shoulder gaze back to the girls we once were, rubbing knees between naps and softening new foot stumbles. 

And there she was, beside me again.

So I stayed there, under little sister blanket, and let her long shadow pass over all of the places still too bright to peer into.

I once read about an orchid. An orchid wrapping its roots around the sturdy trunk of a tree, detached from the earthy ground soil. About the days and weeks and months a flower can survive without rain. Roots without soil. Blooms without rain.

And her presence, the sweet content fill of the glass. Her words, her flared southern accent, the tight gut roll of laughter release, a drink. A savored thirst quenched.  

Sometimes, a person can't see their own beauty. To hold a flower in your hand, the lifted chest breath of awe. Right there. Right in front of you. 

She hides from the lens. So I catch her in her daughter's reflections, let her mother stand inside her fainting blue eyes.

We find our way to the botanical garden, and it feels like an artist's brush finding her paint, the fine hairs of seed dipped in sun and shade.

A gentle apparition of witness, hovering inside her shadows, her back against the sunlight, she introduces me to each flower by name. 

And she was the first place I went to when I needed a picture of motherhood painted against the sky.

The harvesting hand around a ripe heart, gently pulling the fruit from the tree, the speckled sheath of seed on land, the empty pot container longing, the crinkled aluminum imprint of soil between wrinkles of worry.

The mustard seed faith and rosemary warmth,
the geranium scent of awakening. 

And sometimes all you need is someone to stab the ground with protection, place a marker over your emotion, the unidentified stamen of anxiety, left too long to wander alone through the tall wild grass.

She is the girl in the forest, made of leaf, stone, petal and thirst, frail roots growing beneath her, stretching out past the dark tunnels of growth. Her sunken hands, open palm sunrises from the ground.

And the miracle of rebirth,
these open bloom awakenings on winter's edge.

When the conditions are right,
when the sky has forgiven the sun for her blaze, the warmth without burning sting, the gentle sprinkle of a morning rain, rolling water footprints on soft ground, sheltered air, winds silenced by an afternoon rest.

A flower blooms. It grows without roots.

I hope you can see your beauty, sweet bloom.
The kind held in someone's hand just before the helium hold of a first kiss, before fondness gives way to admiration, damp stems wrapped in paper towel gifts.

And her friendship, her motherhood, pruned the parts of me that needed deep mending, a deep pull from the knees kind of tug. And she laid soil rich with understanding, grace, the watering can of forgiveness around this wobbly stem.

There is the fragrant scent of girlhood born from the deep roots of a gardener mother. Fingers through hair, exploring lost tangles, the heavy weight of heart on tilted shoulder kind of love. 

And there is something inside these potted wide eyes.

Roots without soil.
Blooms without rain. 
Girl. Friend. 
XO 

P.S. We leave for Sweden in two days! Have a wonderful rest of June and a lovely Fourth of July! XO

Linking up with Heather at Just Write:)

Something so small.

Sometimes the moon rests on his eyes.

The tiny part where the black hole pupil meets the languid sea of green iris, where pinholes of hurt have leaked tears.

There is the scar under his right eye,
where the cracked plastic met his skin with fall and tumble. 

The dew and mist of tears held back, curled fingers and the smell of cotton ball antiseptic. 

There is the place where cut skin has been joined back together, where the finger runs wobbly over bump and scrape.

And the parked car stall alongside abandoned roads of failure. 

The open field of knees kissed in yellow petal, calves tucked in with sheets of green vein and web. 

The sun carving out the hollow places hidden under bent face and stem.

And the scar, 

disappearing like a seed on the back of the wind. 

An Opening

There is an opening.

The beating pause between motion,

The valve of heartbeat repeating.

 

This time is an echo,

The space between surface and root,

Just before hand breaks ground.

 

And the sandy soil softens each wound.

 

The sound of a seagull bringing me back,

Back to the open sand of time and space,

Lulling my hand over calm waters,

Her sweet wing open to the sky.

 

And it feels like stagnant water.

 

There is the first page of open journal,

A hand moving the hair

Over these window eyes,

The curtain still hung.

 

And his feet,

His small boy feet, 

Running past frozen horse rocking,

grocery store lighting.

 

A mother, handling money,

smiling arched eyes,

as the cashier’s hands move in story,

And with them her open mouth laughter.

 

And the hands,

beginning the hard climb,

Over stirrup and saddle,

his shoes tapping, anticipation and urge.

 

There were these years I couldn’t write about.

I couldn’t say them out loud.

Entire years.

Gone.

 

And once upon a time,

I let the words out,

And they ran and played,

In the sea of green blade childhood,

In the safety of a spring lit yard,

Illuminated in hope and caress.

 

Grass torn from the root,

Muddy paws staining jeans,

In jump and claw.

 

And sometimes it feels like I have created dungeons,

the place in my heart where these words remain locked.

 

And this window once closed,

for months and years,

And the saturated dust,

Settled in corner and sill.

 

This broken glass. Ready.

Split mountain motion.

The subtle rise,

Fingertip hold lifting.

 

The movement of air,

Over arms planked,

In forgotten reach,

Exposed.

 

The rise of hair on the skin.

This opening,

New breath into lungs,

Collapsed.

 

And the beat of the heart,

Once dormant,

Unfamiliar,

Now true.

 

Still.

 

Wet corner eyelashes,

Bridges reached,

The steady walk,

To begin.

 

Through and over.

Lift and held,

The seed released,

In milky petal.

 

And the song of the seagull,

Calling me home,

Past wood and beam attachments,

Her open sea freedom.

 

There is the hand,

On the back leaning,

The push and nudge,

Over concrete feet.

 

Stuck.

 

And the sun,

She comes and she goes.

 

And where will we go,

Through these open window moments,

Unhinged,

Shattered glass moments.

 

Someone is calling.

The seagull.

She waits.

42

We slept until the light was new. 

We drove past steel mill cemeteries and dusty furnace stacks. And we smoothed the land with our eyes, making space for the outline of Chicago’s steel frame walls. He moved his hand over his head forcing the skyscrapers of sleep to crumble beneath his palm. 

There are places that feel like falling backwards into the soft open arms of rest.  And we found forgotten childhoods running through the halls of The Art Institute this day, secret notes left unopened in 200 year old eyes of canvas, oil and breath.

January. She asks me to remember.

There is my birthday and the white snow silence of winter. Chilled hikes into forests with muffled voices hidden beneath scarf and hood, his eyebrows lifted, small eyes speaking.

“I wish I was still little.”

His wonder connected to shovels of excavation, the dirt of memory that grows into hills and pastures of adulthood. And his sweet boy wish, the seed buried and grown, the flower bloomed at garden’s edge.

“You are still little.”

And there were words written under skin, set deep in wrinkles and caverns of time. Words I needed to speak to the girl of long ago, the girl still wandering the halls of my heart, searching for rooms with wings, doors of escape, the grass lined path home. You are 42.

And there is the room inside this heart where the door remains closed, leaking light from under its crack. So I stayed awake under blankets and hushed light and asked the small girl to remember. 

There was the band-aid stuck to your knee for nearly two years, the scab just barely healed then scraped away by blacktop collision. Saddle shoes on pavement, socks with lost elastic grip, the soft cotton rolled around your ankles. The backpack held on by thin strap and your eyes finding her, three rows back, her voice ignited by doors opened wide.

“Hello sweet girl.”

The cat’s tail, moving between question mark and exclamation point as you followed him into the woods to save him from the ribbon strung too tight around his neck. The hive of bees swarmed around you from the ground, rising into the gray air like helium rain. And the pair of mother arms lifting you into the sky, cupped under the bend of your knees, her face, her neck, her eyes, stung by the anger of protection.

And sometimes you found her in her robe, leaning over the floral ashtray with the chip on the edge. You followed the smoke from the tips of her fingers to the open mouth cloud of exhalation and sometimes the light would catch it, this smoke, and wrap its long arms around it carrying it into the Saturday morning air.

It was your soft hair wrapped around finger and thumb when the room felt too big, when the eyes caught your fear in nets. There was the loose part of her pants, just below her knee, where the view of the world seemed smaller.

There was the sound he made when nightmares filled the hallway. The shake of the doorknob handle with fast pulse eyes.

And the tree that waited for you deep in the tight knot of forest, the hole made home to squirrel and nest, the leaves catching each secret spoken in vein and stem.

And the explosion that shook the house from beneath the roots, walls turning each picture on its side.

I will find you.

I will find you again.

The Easter morning you cut your hair, the thin shelf bangs that fell just above your lashes. It was her hands, always her hands, the line just above her knuckle where the glass fell the night we drove to the emergency room, watching the snow fall from the frosted window.

And the drive home from North Judson, following the white stitched highway, the sea of stars born behind front seats, forehead pressed against smoky glass, the sky opening up with shaken bottle release.

You sat in his bluebird pick up truck with the rusty hole, Saturday morning coffee and meringue at the 212 Bargain Center. There was the shoulder roll cower when the waitress bent close to your face, the same cower your limbs would adopt as posture for the next 17 years, until something in your heart told you it was okay to stand tall. It was okay to lift your eyes to the sky.

And the words and pictures that made beds in empty drawers, the box still smelling like her Wind Song and the poems no one would see.

Mrs. Kenny’s voice, the first beat of assurance in a heart with lost rhythm. Her wiry hand wrapped around the first of many words written from that place, the staircase climb through trapdoors of uncertainty.

“You will make things.”

A sentence existing without period, your comma in waiting, the deep pause of development. And the way those words held together a heart of doubt, the filament string of grace when the voices tore at loose ends.

And I lost you, small artist girl, to the wind of comparison, critique and fear. And the circular eye search for the soft hue of confidence, the bright color of voice, the black and white pinhole view widened.

And the first time you felt a broken heart bedroom collapse. His words on the phone, feet on basement concrete, the curtain rod falling in front of the sliding glass door. You. Not. Enough.  And the way the words followed you like tape stuck to the bottom of a shoe, the ink stain of insecurity.

Someone spoke it. Said it out loud, the magnetic pull of secrets buried, the secrets you thought would withstand the pulled skin stretch between girl and woman.

And the day you tore your jeans and dyed your hair, pushing the last strands over your dark eyes, the notes you folded, the cigarettes lit in dark rooms.

The red lipstick stained napkin, the slow walk home under a pulse of city blood, the last hotel’s light blinking. And the way the sky wept, clouds undulating. The smell of alcohol and memory washed in permanent dyes of regret.

And the four years you buried beneath skin and scar, the one you couldn’t forgive for making you unforgivable. And the curl around the bend of his ear you stared at when your heart collapsed.

And the wide eyes narrowed over time to hold memory and dark roads with chandelier endings. The spills, the flat hand falls and the boy you dreamed of, not be a prince, but rather a man with the faint lines of a crown misplaced, laid down for the girl who lost her gown, torn on the road to find him.

And the first time I held his head in my hands and smelled his hospital soap scalp, heart rising in fear for the pulse that beat in his parched, sunken eyes.

And his sweet mouth with the broken tongue that fumbled to latch on to your breast and the watery, ravenous eyes you wondered would forever see your failures. He saw through you, this new mother terror, the fumbling hot plate of learning.

And the bend of God’s hand, cradling the shards of your heart, picked up along the way, in alleys, locked drawers, the smoky rooms of approval.

I wish you knew, small girl. It was there all along. You were seen before your eyes could even blink. And the years I spent searching for you, your words, your pictures, for the box that smelled of Wind Song and woods. 

Let’s make a kite and stitch it to the wind. Let’s watch its serpent tail turn the corner. We’ll enter the boat bandaged and hear the hum of the sail sing hymns of freedom. We’ll step onto island shores, turning our heads to look back, just once, to watch this boat sink under the horizon of forgiveness. 

For all you have wandered.

42.

Bird Girl

The light moved fast, painting shadows over the faded green field. There was the last cold kiss of a regular Tuesday and my hands cupped his fingers as his feet swept the frosted field. There was the crack of branch and swing of arms and the quick break of fingers falling apart from the nest of palm and thumb. And there was the race to the pond, the sound of nylon scratching with each stride and his small chirp of discovery.

The air was still and we made small waves with our hum and breath. The abandoned cities of cattails and tall bent grasses opened doors and windows to mark our return. And the quiet light sent secret messages only our hearts could hear.

And there was a yawn in the bend of his hand, a hollowed out center that yearned to be thread with the quiet presence of love and her melodic song.

And it was his small fingers inside my hand, the pulse under his nails, the criss cross veins running alongside my worn wrinkles that told me to listen.

The red winged blackbirds were gone. The ones that dove under deep blue skies and sang in urgency as we moved around the nests once filled with egg and chick.

And her voice, the one hidden behind thunder, the warning that rumbles behind the protective mama heart, telling the rain just where to land. She was there, in the shadow of fall, under winter's restless light. She whispered. This is home.

She said she needed words. Something that could line the inside of her coat on winter days, when the light felt broken and dim. And there was some kind of respite in her wings, a hiding place from all of the feeling and hurting. And her feathers were lined with dust, the kind that came from uncovering secrets.

Sometimes the light can bend in a certain direction, turning all of the leaves into wings, the branches into bare, naked limbs reaching for the nearest cloud. And there, when the light is just right, I can see the outline of her nest, still warm with memory.

These fingers entwined, these moments engrained, are the intricate weaving of her smile, her eyes bright with hello, a dangling paintbrush between two loose fingers. It is the faint breath between twig and leaf, the protection and warmth seated in the depth of her hold.

He held the nest close and lifted a leaf from its center.

"It's made from all that remains, the stuff left behind. A shoelace or wrapper from some old gum. A broken piece of grass or ribbon left in the rain. Bits of paper and mud. It's all here. Inside this little nest. Nothing is forgotten."

And her love feels like the wind blowing even when the windows are closed.

And there are the times I feel most alone in the forest, when I can no longer identify specie or skin, when the smell of grass is dull and the bark no longer a pattern to follow. When my eyes are closed and the caves covered with doors of boulder and stone.

"Will you hold my hand?"

And her words of love, the ones she wrote on the insides of her fingers, so when our hands met, I could feel her story told between my thumb and the curve of her nail. These words are my ladder to this place you call home.

"Will you hold my hand?"

"I already am."

And I can hear her quiet song on the flutter of a bird's wing, carrying away the worry, the fear, the small voices caught in nets. And the place she wrote her story still remains on these hands, each vein a path past grown wrinkles and tree lined fingertips, each holding a nest from their wiry bends.

And her heart, the one that shines each time a leaf lifts in a breeze. Her heart, entwined in the deepest part of this nest, rests with each rise and fall of breath.

So I move things around, make a space for the cutting and grafting, the weaving and stitching, the building of nest and home. So these moments, woven in love, the curl of her hair, the way her eyes filled with tears just before she laughed, the way her voice paused before exclamation, the way the light would soak up her motherhood just so it could shine. I will place you here. Forever.

And I remember the hands that cradled this wreck of a girl with one, curled lash wink, the way love can sometimes feel like a leap, a dance over hot stone ash. 

And the fragile walk through dark forests, searching, while your hands lift me over thorn and brush. And there you are, making friends with the moon, smiling over a bent sunset, pushing its warm blanket over our skin. And your song, the fingers tucking in each loose corner.

And to find love perched, held between breaths, enough time for my eyes to fill with tears. Sometimes all I can see are the lashes under her eyes, all of the wishes set loose on the wind, and the sunset when the waves were so loud we had to yell over their roars. 

I will place you here. Between the dew of this one morning and the crest of this fallen night. Your love thread between wrapper and twig, damp clay and fallen hair. Between the bend of my finger and the joint of his hand. In the motherhood I forgot to own and the friendship I carry in the smallest pocket of my heart, this nest,

made from all that remains.

*And a film made during the creation of this shadowbox, filmed by the lovely,  Lara Vagenius. Thank you, beautiful girl.

The Gentle Fall

The parking lot carried rivers of sand over pavement, weaving in and out of yellow parking lines and forgotten shovels. I held my hand over my eyes to keep the sand from finding them. And he yelled something over the arch of the blustery wind, placing each word on its tail.  And his two brothers followed him, hooking their small fingers inside his belt loop to guide them.

Their feet touched the concrete in rhythmic bends, the heaving breath of one, sandy boyhood search, the arm pumping race to corner the moon. And they pushed their way against the wind's resistance, finding small openings in the deep breath intervals between gusts. And they made a run for it, escaping the boundaries and invisible gates of childhood.

There was a leap. The moment between reverence and discovery, where small hands meet the earth, the grounded soil of lost afternoons. And her leaves twisted in the light, the nostalgic twinkle found only in the eyes of someone who loves without reason.

And she appeared to reach down with her limbs and carry them away. And I could almost hear her breathe again with each step and reach over root and scratched bark peeling. 

She had been waiting for them, waiting for their open hands pressed against her trunk, their fingers cupped around each branch. The cold winter's grip tickling her leaves to descend. And their open hands waiting to catch her golden light foliage. 

And her roots gave way to the birth of the climb, the veins on the floor, the fall. And each toe, notched between spiral root, told a story. Each curve and twist, a whisper of where to hold on and where to let go. And the deep knee balance between limb kept them up, holding them high enough to see the faraway lines of where they had been.

These legs that climb over root and foot, this wind that strips and exposes what's left. The carriage divine offering each leaf a pulse. And there was the hush and break of hands wide open, eyes softened at the brow, cheeks warmed by end of the day sunlight. 

And I wondered what this tree might whisper to us if her knots could speak.

How many hands have rubbed away the sheen on her bark, how many days and hours she stood alone, untouched, waiting for the hands of children to find her again. How many falls, how many broken twigs of failure these branches have cradled, never once offended. 

The climb over tangled history, burnt tongues, silencing fingers held close to the lips.

"Careful."

"Don't fall."

And the words still mute, broken before I could speak them. It's okay to fall. 

The fallen, the gentle journey to the ground, is bigger than us. To hold it in our hands, the connecting stitch of steps misplaced, of color not yet changed, hues hushed in the dimming light, is to cradle the spring of what is yet to be born. 

And he asked if he could count them.

His small voice leaning.

"I wonder how many there are."

"I wonder how many have fallen."

The life that pulsed from their veins. The summer days, the laughter caught between branches, the warmth of the sun seen through transparent skin. The late evening firefly gathered on point's end, the caterpillar's meal of renewal. And the day's that held the quiet song of soft breeze sonnets, leaves marching hand in hand, spinning on connected vine, the confirmation of life.

Maybe it's like counting the stars, knowing that somehow they will all add up to light the darkest sky.

This autumnal fall, the piles of wrong turns, the mistakes laid to rest.

And the hand still open to catch it all. The chill. The shake. The torn, beaten wind of broken worry and regret.

This mercy feels whole again. These hands that collect the veins once filled with coursing blood, connect my closed eyes to my heart.

This tree trunk faith, the holy roots of love, hope for the open hand to find them. 

"Where do they go?"

"All of these fallen leaves."

Back to the ground. To make the roots strong.

Stretch out your branches and let them fall.

He reached for my hand.

And maybe it was the way he moved, but I could see his limbs let go. I could see his tree heart beating. I could see the wind grab at his leaves and playfully tug at the places he left tears to grow wild. I could feel the fall coming and my skin, this thin covering over bent twigs and cracked limbs, felt warm again.

It was a new path and my heart opened new doors and I could feel the shy, hesitant girl of duty, creep out from inside the deep holes of slumber. And he took her hand too.

The sun fell behind the gray storm shelf, taking it's place beside forgotten notes and loose buttons and I felt it's final brush of warmth before it descended. The salmon jumped over creek's log and I could feel the small girl's hand inside me, reach from behind my eyes. And discovery soothed and opened the fists still clenched in powerlessness.

We are caught with these hands open wide, in mercy's deep palm, fingers curled around insecurity and failings, nails brittle with neglect. And the beauty in the creases, the age and shedding skin, the rusted corners, the pearl inside.

"Can we stay here forever?"

"Yes."

"Forever and ever."

The light was almost gone. The shadows led over rock and root. The blue turned to gray. The red had fallen. And the words still there, on the tips of our tongues, the hyphenated pause between forgiveness and trust.

The last open hand reaching for something we once knew. I will wait for the mercy to come, to fall gently from her limbs. And this open hand still keeps the day from night, the life lived in shadows.

And I am left with the outline, the memory of hearts fallen, the texture and lines, the veins that once gave us life, now distant and hard to see. This art remains, the pattern, the map over rivers and streams, the damns we tried to block, the rushing water leaks, the holes we filled with mud and stone.

All of these wishes and wants and far away dreams, waiting to be let go, dropped from high places. And sometimes the letting go moves fast, gets swept up by the deep current of wind and sand and spin, and other times, it is the gentle fall, the fingers released, the slow motion hang under a forest's soft eyes. 

A Resting Place.

 

There's a door with a handle,
An opening wide.
Brown, rusted hinges,
A faint light inside.

 

The resting, the weeping,
The long overdue.
The tightening of heartstrings,
The me and the you.

 

 

There's challenge and beating,
For bent screws now groan.
For sickness and sadness
Coarse edges to hone.

 

 

The voice in the throat,
The gulp and the squeeze.
Three fingers hold hardly,
 Bloom's muse whispers please. 

 

These slowly bent hinges,
Release in the still.
The rain that gave silence,
To red knuckle will.

 

 

These hands lay now gently,
Past ropes come untied.
The bird, feather's molting,
Deep waters subside.

 

 

And trees release failure,
From first summer's mourn.
These eyes that weep grateful,
For this, autumn born.

 

I Will Find You In The Somewhere

There are places in this world that remind us who we are. That time is not best spent planning and worrying, acquiring and gaining. That this life is for shedding, letting go and living in what remains. 

There are these places where the light is delicate. Where the water's cold chill raises our skin to goosebump's refresh. Where early mornings hold the laugh lines, the soft creases of joy throughout the day. And gratitude is the gentle fog that comes in after the rain.

There is this place where God holds the sun in His hand, where He opens His fingers to let the light spread over every field and flower.

This place, this sweet Minnesota cabin, situated somewhere on the thin line of Canada. This sand is my heaven. It's grains, my tiny words, filling journals and secret rooms inside my heart.

 

I will find you in the somewhere,
in the muddy, outstretched sky.
I will find you in the somewhere,
where the clouds kneel down to cry.

I will cover each and every stone,
with hope and strength to borrow.
For when your heart, it walks alone,
through trails of grief and sorrow.

I will find you in the tea stained sky,
in the crooked, broken trees.
I will find you in a harp's soft strum,
in the quiet, floating leaves. 

 

 

I'll rest a finger on the tip,
of fallen houses new.
And battle for the eyes that weep,
for wounds of black and blue.

And seeds unearthed,
by pull and dig.
These blossoms found
in rock and twig.

Hold on, my heart,
that you may know.
The creeks you wind,
the weeds you grow.

These small tributaries,
these hollow lines unseen.
That move through veins of flesh and bone,
for what we wish and dream.

 

 

The sweet relief,
of words made true.
By river's depth,
a quenched renew. 

Our heads submerge,
to quiet the hums.
Untangle the strings
caught in fingers and thumbs.

You whisper, my sweet,
into night's swollen ear,
"Your heart, my found anchor.
This sea, my lost fear."

 

 

I'll no longer shake,
these fingers point.
The skeletal limp
on fractured joint. 

So nestle me closer,
in morning's new light.
These dreams that lay sleeping
in maybe's and might's. 

And there in your hand,
where lines travel west.
A sweetly wrapped secret,
held close to your chest. 

And these eyes that hold,
written scrolls to unfold.
The stepping stones leaps, 
of secrets you told. 

 

 

So sit with me slowly,
to watch open skies.
And listen, sweet berry
to our whispers and sighs.

Soft infant clouds,
awake from their nap.
To lay their heads gently,
upon your safe lap.

And flowers that bow,
and bend at our knees.
To hold the dipped hands
of each leaf on the trees.

 

 

And sweet water dew,
the fog blindly creeps.
Past doors left unopened,
while forests still sleep. 

I'll keep you here,
in wakes of new blue.
In orange bottled light
of summer's sweet hue.

And long, tangled branches,
of straight lined birch.
Each crooked bend,
your heart goes to perch. 

 

 

And the rings of each tree,
mark the days we let go.
The days we left buried,
in winter's last snow. 

So asters, go quickly,
and find your soft bed.
Between the torn sheets,
of words we once said.

And foxglove, there,
lend me your eyes.
My petals grown weak,
from this weight and this size. 

So gratitude, gratitude,
please make me new.
With the soft spun seeds
of too many, more few. 

 

 

And there you stood,
in the light of what will.
Your heart a deep pocket,
to harness and fill.

And the dapper young yawn,
of a prairie wide day.
The white tailed escape,
of a sunrise at play.

This grace is the queen,
with her lace dipped in white.
Weaving mistakes,
with her beauty and light.

 

 

And this place called remember,
steals strength from the wind.
Informing each moment,
just when to begin. 

The stars left unseen,
behind black clouds of fright.
Are stars kept in waiting,
for moments most bright.

And this summer sea,
with it's diamond light.
Lifts the waves to reflect,
these stars back at night.

 

 

This place is a tower,
a hand held last stance.
To bring them together,
this fate and this chance.

And the skin of the birch,
made dark by the storm.
Feels sunlight mid morning,
suspended, yet warm.

And there, at the bottom,
mistakes lost at sea.
The deep tranquil waves,
of this mutiny set free.

I will find you in the somewhere,
in this lake of broken glass.
Where wakes of summer sleeping,
still wait for winter's pass.

 

 

Come home,
My darling.
Come home to me.
Take rest in these arms,
of my broken down tree. 

Remember.