The Soldier's Wife

The bus crackles with candy wrappers and children's voices. You talk about wars and Iraq. You are so weary of it. Me too. You want our troops home. Me too.

 Your opinions blow through the bus daring anyone to disagree.  Views like a cashmere wrap snuggle you, so warm and effortless.

I think of saying, "oh, your husband is in Iraq too?" but my heart is heavy today and my voice snuggles into a deep silence.

You preach politics without the personal. Blissfully unaware of my heart. You don't see my son cry at night. You don't set one less place. No packing and moving. "it's hard to be an American" you say. Me too.

You are cozy and without sacrifice. You are not a soldier's wife.

Birds of a Feather

Tiny, but mighty acrobats soar and dive. Powerful wings hum with steady motion. Jewel throated beauties ready for a costume ball.

Days filled with frolic, food and flying. Nights still steeped in recovery and rumination. Taking time for torpor, lowering the heart rate, slowing the breath, lulling the cells to peace.
Pausing with the Creator, filling with Spirit, preparing to revel in dawn.

Also tiny, but much more than we know, darting from project to project, humming with proud busyness.Take a lesson from a humble bird: Be still, and fill, with Spirit.

The Bearded Ballerina

Surrounded by ghosts, witches and gypsies,  clad in ivory long johns, resplendent in rainbow tutu, a blonde wig perched on his head, he strolled and skipped from house to house.

Accepting tributes of beer or bourbon, creating laughter at his own expense. Breaking smiles and easing hearts, if just for a little while.

A witch with observant eyes, and a watchful heart, records his easy joy. She channels Mother Nature.

Escorted by a brave soldier and a ballerina's spirit, she floats from house to house. Creating laughter at her own expense, breaking smiles and easing hearts, if just for a little while.

The Mother Equation

Factors are gathered from unrelated data. There are no parentheses.

Baby eats first. Crys call from a grumpy sleep; steps you would take for no one else.

Trucks and trains travel the living room. Favorites even find a place in your heart. Birthday parties, bullies and bikes. Braces, glasses, sand castles.

Driving in the snow, holding a stunned bird. Ready to fly but still holding your hand, a man with a college plan born.

The labor here is not physical in form. Elements and context crave a catalyst. Add transforming,  unconditional love. When a heart  grows, a mother is born.

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Three Suitcases

     I left home with three suitcases.

     Warm breeze and sun gold skin. Diamond Head glitters in a wash of  pastel pink. I sip frosty beer and drink in independence.

     Next stop: Hong Kong. A jumble of neon, a sprinkling of staccato language, a glassy harbor and a frame of jagged peaks surround me. Alone in my apartment, the journey feels fast. Suddenly a girl adrift in Asia; beam me home.
     Harbor lights signal ships to safety and  I pull myself together.

I left home with three suitcases. The past is packed, the present is heavy, but the future may be full of light.  

The Language of Roses

 The roses speak.

     They oversee the children. Heads leaning in, they guard the princes and princesses, the knights and sorcerers. These are royal dreams wrapped in faded, floral curtains. Battles are won, prisoners freed; lives saved.

Their whispers float on a feather of breeze. A soft scent blesses the pageantry. One freckled princess tucks the fragrance into a tiny box and locks it in her heart.

The gardener tends their roots with gentle skill. He prunes. and speaks life in their secret language. They bloom in thanks and exclaim in sun petals edged in pink joy.

The gardener's work is done.  Royalty disperse. The freckled princess still hears the rustle of roses. Muffled voices speak with heavenly memory. She leans in, the breath of the rose on her face. Her heart remembers infinite dreams, tender care, safety.

The roses speak and she hears love.