One day in the middle of May
Some of the broken things lined up
And raised their hands and asked for a turn
To speak, step up to the mike and say their peace
And if history is any indicator of anything
Which she decided it was
She decided to listened.
On the day in May when the broken things spoke
Sharing autobiographically of course about the cracks and such
She bent an ear and heard them out
Let them air out their laundry
And hang some stuff on the lines
Full disclosure clears the air
And truth blows nicely in a Mid-May breeze.
After the rains come, the rain-air freshens the stale.
Companies bottle and sell the scent of new, after the rain.
In May, there were dances around the pole and piano recitals and
The broken got to say what pressed heavy on their minds.
They spoke of renewing and renewal.
And she learned a thing or two about tossing out the perfectly good things
Which only needed love.
Wasn’t this the way of the Saints, which was forgotten.
She longed to oil the creaking gate and quiet the banging cymbals
When the greatest of these was flushed, kicked to the curb
Cast aside, it had grown loud
Love come quiet, love come heal.
Simply loving the broken smelled different after the rain.
Regret proceeds reconciliation.
If you stand in the right direction, facing due north
With your compass set on mercy
And your heart prepared to forgive
You can begin again.
A friendship saved is no small thing
Ask the circle of the broken, banged up and bruised
Women who have lost a few
To bad decisions, pride and myopic sight
And a short sighted heart.
She just never knew then what she knows now
But she can tell you if you have time to listen
That after the rain stops and the flood waters receed
You too may find beauty where there were ashes.
And you may raise your white flag and color it joy
That a friendship has come back around.
In the middle of May
Blooming blessedly on the bush
Where the pruning of pride and prejudice
The bloom is on the vine
And restoration looks beautiful
On a friend
As we begin anew.
We drove side by side
It was a leaving kind of drive
Where the sad drips down the windows
And it is not raining yet
But it will.
Quiet settled in like deep fatigue in the bones
It moved through the muscle, ached with a deep soul
And yet the quiet had life.
We barely spoke
After all these years you can read a mind
Or you can read a mood
Of quiet content
And soft remembering.
We packed a bunch of memories
In sardine can sized moments
Enough to dip down into and draw up from
This well, stocked well
Smell a few, sip a few
When life is dry,
And the soul is parched
Remembering wets the edges of the brittle
With a faint recalling
Of dancing in the rain
Round the corner from the wheat.
We hit pothole and sinkhole
Deep ruts in the road
As the rear view mirrored memories grow small
The sound of mandolin and fiddle
Still hang in the Panola air.
One note hangs in the cool May sky.
The note held long and low
The one that played for you.
We thought all good was left behind
In the tired and fatigue
But on the way home it waved
This field of wheat
And I knew this bookend
This book mark of beauty was a telling
Waving wheat promising more
Whispering this was not the end
But a field of beginning
Gold-leafed fields tell stories
Glorious more waits
More than was ever left behind.
Held on the fingertips of memory
Grasped in the hands of the hopeful.
In the forming
In the blooming
Lives the Beauty
Caught in a state of unfinished
Held by hope
Trusting in an ombre
Beauty mix of then and now
Joy and pain
The middle whispers now is
Now is life
Suspended in the shades of unknown
Mid-ways, half-ways and on-the-ways.
Beauty in the living