Treading
Lately roots awaken from slumber Memories disperse whispers past Silent picture of her in a blue dress Running the fields like a promise. Autumn matter releases And in the spring floats in seedlings Like her spirit of stone and brook Her fields Loves I did not yearn And yet we correspond As does love when it reaches far Giving no reason for lengths of time. Lately her past is a promise The possibility of all I carry forth That won’t be lost Real butter on toast each morning Steaming coffee and real cream Her life enough to build my own When in the early winter I reach for the knitted blanket Still stowed with the linen since we were kids. Roots awoken keep spreading The ground roots unbeknownst to my treading feet Sheltered in old hikers boots When and where many pasts come to meet.
Greener Meadows
She needed proof from the outside, it wasn’t enough that her limbs ground and trembled from imposed rigor, cramming in the exercise session. “No more gorging, giving into cravings, no more nonsense,” ordered the familiar voice. It sounded so reasonable in her mind, that she could stop that silliness immediately. She’d forgotten, again, in the wide stare of the prejudiced mirror, in the parlor, that very morning, while absorbed in the tasks ahead. As a nonbeliever in the vague, muted sighs from intuition, she felt sure her condition was registered somewhere by a reputable MD. That didn’t save her from remembering she had never been able to restrict from oral pleasure. Disciplining cravings was never her thing. Soon, the pesky bug of ambivalence crept up, saying the meadow was probably greener on the other side of her. She was not a planner, no road was ever sketched, and no prospect ever enunciated. Her way was akin to the October gusts; unconcerned, always looking for something wonderful to “lo and behold”. Emotions tore her in two, back and forth, wanting to achieve what she wasn’t meant for. Then he came. She said yes, although at her core there was always another option, wanting to be revealed. But alternatives needed excuses to be taken, and he was no drunken idiot, just lying around, being as fatherly as a pile of dirty laundry, smoking a couple of packs a day. She saw no way of backing out of him. Her new mess would have to do. Worried, she bounced theories with her shrink, unraveling layers of herself. The professional hinted: might she be obsessed with finding fairness where there wasn’t any to be had? Could she be free in an unfair world, where willpower fails against cravings, thighs jiggle in faded jeans, and husbands aren’t as exciting as they were pumped up to be? The two faced caterpillar glissaded to her head, announcing options available. ¿A brighter, greener meadow, on the other side of marriage? But love happened. Perfection came, for a while, and it engaged her senses. Four legged with a mane, and during this time she felt free. At the end of thirty-something she found herself resolute, along trails of sweat and falls. Her mind balanced in the risk of art, thighs tightened steadfast around a noble back. An emerald meadow stretched ahead. Her husband’s fear of the future tipped the scales over. The green turned pale. After his drilling probabilities into her gauzy reality, she tore herself apart and acquiesced. She wouldn’t die riding, she’d stay put for him, and play along, pretending to be herself. The game of passion subdued, will against whim. It faded her discreetly. Se searched for worlds and found them in other people. Outside of herself other eyes watched, feet treaded, hands explored, voices told. Books piled on shelves around the house, in the coat closet. New theories brought back some of the lost gleam from her eyes, while her body grew old and achy. But temperate October always comes back in amiable gusts, and she dreams of greener meadows, still.
October Woman
She said things just happen without any sense of an underlying plan, that life is an unfair trial, in the end. I just listened. But she was fascinated nonetheless by destructive patterns. There was comfort in the old familiar going back and forth, just to be sure that the scales couldn’t possibly stay level. It consumed her in the cool fire of her forlorn native moon. The celestial body gifted my mother with a razor mind, trapped in a frozen lake. The clouds above in the October sky parted in slumber. Nights kept quiet so that she might rest the ambivalent instrument of her fate. She tried to accommodate our world of cognitive dissonance. It hounded on her tidy way of loving us. A purebred soul like hers couldn’t possibly meld into the world’s nastiness, so she read books instead, making time. It took long to make her out. I could not build a coherent picture in my mind’s eye. So many pieces lay close together, as if ready to fit into each other, but no. She would scatter them again and reconfigure, compelled by a sense of fairness to the rest of us. Then again, her moods never fit the frame, and I found no glue, until one day, I saw her standing in front of the horse stables, staring at the October moon. Tainted in soft orange pink, the luminous lady spoke of a secret. Despair had something to do with her phases, repeating each year, almost identical, as people often do. The weighted scales would never rest. Her message was the howl of a tamed wolf, music from a Celtic flute. My mother’s lonely pupils converted, the message was remembrance. Stone wind-chimes hung around a forest, where the luminous lady kept cool fires burning in puddles of mute light. Mother decided she would finish with grace because it was only fair. She handed over her grandma’s old country leather suitcase, with smooth rounded corners. Inside, I found figurines, fragrant books, poems scribbled, dainty fashion tips, and quotes. Artsy jewelry pieces, horse trails, a lucky charm made of grasses and twigs, spiders housekeeping their webs in the morning, and just enough madness to keep me sane. If in another lifetime, we’d have met on board a train, traveling first class, reading our books. We’d discuss our reads and a nice waiter would have brought us some more tea. From our window a regal Sunset, as the trip was a whole day affair. And the October moon, the luminous lady who tames the wolves, would have seen us through, in ease and grace.