Sometimes viewed as wrinkles,

Getting ready to become a crease,

And in need of immediate ironing.

 

Let them be,

These natural folds in a life,

Draping a path which shows who I am,

And how I wear it.

 

For folds are my history and my present day.

 

Motionless, she stands amongst the flowers,

Having picked them earlier to bring to her beloved.

Waiting now for a reaction,

Stony silence,

And a soft, sandstone gaze,

Fixes our attention.

 

It is what the artist intended.

 

Not another forward looking distraction,

Determining what to plan, or change.

Or another look in the rear view,

Seeing what might have been,

In the mirror of regret.

 

Let me just land here, now.

And see clearly what is relevant.

 

That is …. conversing, feeling, seeing you.

 

Never sure of the meanderings,
The mind takes us places we cannot control,
For thoughts are random or not,
Blistering the skin sometimes,
Another a wondrous consolation.

Lord, let them pass,
Like a ship going out to sea.

Is it me following the stream,
Or did the stream come to me?

Watching,
Me and my friends see it go by each day,
And yet stay still.
A both/and stream.

Sometimes full of water, spilling onto our trunks,
But always providing nourishment,
Spilling hidden water reaching the deepest roots.

I will stand and follow.
Becoming a both/and tree.

 

 

She was never sweet, no shrinking violet,

But she was beautiful.

She was strong,

But without brutality, only humanity.

She was funny,

Not funny, ha ha … but funny infectious.

Could cause the giggles.

 

She was generous,

Always;

Even to the undeserving.

She was responsible,

Mainly for others, whenever in need.

No questions asked, just love delivered.

 

Most of all,

She was a woman you would want to encounter,

For each time you did,

Something memorable happened.

 

You noticed how love could be spread,

Not just in words, but in actions.

For she,
Talked with her heart,

Listened with her soul,

Acted in unselfish love.

 

And left a little in all of us.

 

The door is closed, but not locked,

Keeping the cold wind out,

But ever ready to welcome any traveler,

Who needs to come in from the cold.

 

And be greeted with food for body and soul.

 

Waiting now for the inevitable,

The road passes directly by the house in shadows,

Hastily boarded up in expectation of a red force marching this way.

 

While a youngster with a whistle beckons death,

Once faint, now with a discernable tune,

Hunting muskets, long since used,

Become ready for perhaps the last time.

 

As dread is swallowed hard,

To be digested by courage.