Racing the Angels

In youth, I dreamed of racing angels, flaming creatures of blood and gold,
Velvet robes brushed my cheek in the starry void, 

And paper lips spoke my name.  I actually thought I could win.

For in that indigo night, my soul was tasked with carrying safe
A bag of heart-shaped apples, simple enough a burden,
But my fear rose among the flames and pushed me past all barriers,
Strong wings beating terrestrial winds, faster and faster, 
Pressing on to glory, to victory, pushing the Earth below me, 
Beneath these beating wings, on to the pressed pages of history 
As my soul soared unto the heavens and the Milky Way beyond.

But the angels cared not for that, and 

The bag was ripped from the beginning, 

but I didn't think to look. 
These treasures fell from my grasp even as I flew beyond them, 

dropping past my fiery feet in the stardust trail 

of vapor, stargazer lilies and crystallized wishes. 

The realization sucked my spirit from the heavenly path and down
Through a draining humanity that sewed my hopes to a lowly bond where I might

Raise my eyes to heaven and send my thoughts and prayers

forevermore on the ashes and sparks of the fire within, 
Always burning, forever on fire. 

And I tend this earthly post, a wizened, grey old woman, 
as the night-cold breeze brushes my cheek

and the bitter ashes rise like snowflakes among the sparks,
And I remember dreams I've had and the races I almost won.

September

The sun falls,
and my favorite old chambray shirt wraps around me
with the smell of rain and deep dark earth
made rich with old bones
and memories of summers, alive and abundant,
warm and golden.
The harvest season sets in, and we slip into the indigo
to the song of the cicada and the casanova cricket.
The seeds that have lain dormant in my soul
sprout and bring forth new life
and joy,
crying and dancing in victory
and stretching their limbs
to grasp the world and cling for dear life,
drinking the rain with thirsty throats
and siphoning a private reservoir to draw upon
when the sun grows hot again.

Like Pearls of Time are Bones

Earth and salt could not be more real
Than the old woman in her garden.
Her old bones and her old eyes -
Aged, cultured -
And so, I say, like pearls,
Though not quite as lovely.
Still, death lends refinement
(Immortal lustre, in fact)
And silence is golden.
Her memories are collected neatly
And stored away like treasure
In a solid pine box, sealed by the earth
And the flowers and the vines.
They will be safe here,
These secrets in the sun.
The old woman will never tell
Another living soul.

Mothers Day Present

By chance and destruction
Came the birth of the moon
Torn mantle from the earth's crust
Struck by a foreign body
And flung into space

The young satellite is wicked
in the violence of her own existence,
as is the rib of Adam.

Spinning through the darkness
Skidding, swirling to a stop
Looking back in defiance
And watching from a distance

Anger matures to resolution,
and she becomes cool comfort.
Her beams reach through the night
to find us, to show us the way.

She draws the eyes of women,
and we all see
ourselves.

Wooden Maturity

Autumn, poignant season
Trees, once full and lush
Letting their vibrant colors slip away in a death rattle
Some are already stark silhouettes in the November sky
Naked in the rain that washes away
Deserted bird nests and empty insect casings

Calmly, the trees stand alone together
Facing the harshness that lies ahead
Only their rough bark protects them
A family of experienced cynics

Acorns are buried beneath the leaves
In the earth's somber, secret womb
At some mysterious hour, they will rise up
Pushing their heads through the folds of soft earth
Crowning, then craning their young necks
To feel the warmth of the sun on their new, unfolding leaves

For ages, they will stand in the shadows of their mothers
Receiving second-hand drops of rain
And only the light that shines through
But, the earth is softly tilled with roots that have gone before

A sapling has few hopes of ever viewing life unshaded
Meddling men might chop away the mother
And transplant the sapling and its root ball
Or, the young tree might finally surpass the matriarch
Growing taller and stronger, rising above her
And stretching out its limbs
To grasp the world for itself

Wings

They rest there in the warmth
of the sun as it smiles.
They are at peace and are
content to be alone together.
Their movements are a somniferous hum,
comforting reassurance
of the presence of like souls.
They would stay there forever,
alone together,
blinking in the sun;
but, the wind rustles their feathers
and whispers its secret call.
They can do nothing but answer;
for, they belong as much to freedom
as it does to them.
They are lifted in flight
by the wind's voluminous arms,
and there, they fly.