A Gatherer’s Tale

 

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A Gatherer’s Tale

He dropped me off. Left me on a single slice of earth. Drove away in a watery wake. His back spoke a silent goodbye, good luck. I saw no one ahead or behind. Only the Oyster Catcher and the others. I had time. Space in all its facets, wet and dry. Solitude dominated the landscape. The sea, a metronome of well-timed lapping. The wind filled gaps of silence. Held me in his absence. Peace sat on her throne. Ruled the high seas. Reigned over me. While I began my gathering. The shoreline gives more than it takes. And offers more than the tangible. I heard cryptic murmurings to choose this and leave that. Pick this one and pass up that one. My small bag now filled with a story that would be written later. When puzzle piece meets puzzle piece. And the mystery makes more sense.Than not. I rinsed off my treasures with water, not from the raging sea. But from my quietude of fresh desire. To connect the dots of fractured wisdom passed from sea to me. Distanced myself from that slice of where I’d been. And read only what was in front of me. A dot dash dot, Morse code message made from collected things. Every symbol formed a word. Conjoined me to the shore, to tell me more of the world I’d gone in lonely search of knowing. I left parts of the story on the hemline of the world. They would wait for another day. But only if the tide has mercy. And lets them live to tell me more. He picked me up. And let me bring my bag of gathering home. Once heard and told, the stories never let you forget. The lessons they behold.

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Surprised By God

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Surprised by God

She wasn’t speaking the obvious, really
It was a bit confessional
Or whining
Or a primitive guttural prayer
This is the problem with memoir
She thinks
Or believes
Or was it just musing
Truth was she did say, no typed
She hoped to be surprised by God
Or that God would surprise her
Do they mean the same
Or does that slight turn of phrase change things up a bit

And then it occurred to her
That what if the gift, the surprise
Was one of omission
Not physical or plain
Touchable or here

What if the gift was in what never happened
Like the absence of pain which never occurred
Or calamity or catastrophe which was averted or
Blocked
Saved by grace, shielded by mercy
Loved in the mystical marvelous way
That He does
Love, us

She thought maybe the surprise was in the silent step
Paw by paw of her tuxedo dressed cat
How can weight be silent as she creeps
Or the birth of a daughter one day in December
Oh joy, oh gift
Or the comfort of night, after the raucous and rowdy
Day
Or falling to sleep praying to be held
By him who is Comforter, buried under the
White down duvet
Seeking refuge and finding it in prayer

She remembered the camellia with a white blossom
Mixed among the red, a pearl in the sea of rubies
Miracle of nature or grafting of man
Either way, joy came her way
By God’s hand

The day she spoke it to her friend
The words of wanting, longing for Him to make himself known
She was empty
No filled with pain, loneliness and doubt

She sat waiting, trusting
Hope attending her soul

Time is a curious thing
She surmised
She had been surprised by God
More than seventy times seventy

It was in remembering back
On faithfulness
Not longing forward
With desire
Or is it
Both

Comfort comes
To those who believe
And who find Joy
Ushered in by the light of
Any moment now
Hope is a sliver
Of light pouring in
Reminding her of all the
What has been

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Joining my friend poet herself, beautiful writer and weaver of words, Laura for Playdates with God #atthewellspring and Michelle 

The Day Spring Almost Tied The Knot

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The Earth just opened her new box, waxy smells wafting out, tips sharpened
Virgin points, aiming toward heaven
Like instruments of praise
Whittled odes of rejoicing
Wrapped in slick paper

Names like that of the new season’s OPI
Nail polish
So perfectly given
One cannot tell if the name made the color
Or the color birthed the name
And which, do tell came first
In any event
It is a birthing of new
And to her surprise
As she opened the box
With the ity bity black hole in the back
Low and centered
Round and welcoming
For sharpening, when tools become dull and spent

The whole box was 64 shades
Of green
And creams
Dual monochromatic offerings
For coloring the Earth in her
New garb
For shading the world
In new birth

The world was once again
Awash
In the hues of greeney new birth
Of shoots and leaves
Grasses and stems
Trumpets of new flora and fauna
Vines pressed through the layer
Of dark and dank

She closed the box
Hoarded and saved
This school-bus-yellow
New box of crayons
Perhaps it would be needed
On another day, Winter the tyrant
Has never played fair
Deliverer of death and dark
Cold and fear
Lights off
Lights back on
Mysteriously, again

Unsure, uncertain
And truly afraid
That this was a prelude, precursor
Preamble, only
To Spring

Her box of creams and greens
It may be needed again
To color the world
Brightly resplendent indeed
One day soon

But of one thing she was certain
With no doubt at all
The Earth was her loveliest
When dressed as a bride

Approaching the altar
Both timid and brave
Head bowed in her virginal
Expectant state, behind a thin veil
Of cream lace

She wore a gown of 1950’s Virginal White
And carried a bouquet of  The Grinch Stole Christmas Greens
Loose greens, free and just garden picked

Closing  the box this March Monday
She determined to
Wait patiently for
The Real “true” Spring
Spring Green to arrive
Followed by Pea Soup Green
And Grass Through Your Toes Green
And her favorite, Pistachio Ice Cream Green
Or was it Thin Mint Green

So she closed the lid
And placed her new box of Crayola’s
On the tippy top shelf

And waited patiently
For the bride of Spring

While painting her toenails
Moss At The Base Of The Pine Tree
Green
For the big event

Memory Is A Lady

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Memory Is A Lady

She is a traitor
Rub the slender bottled neck
With the waist of a teenage girl
And pray she pops out like a genie
Powerful, potent, able to grant wishes
Instant and endless
In three’s
Memories

She is a hoarder
Holding on haughty and hard
To the ones you try desperately to find, to grasp
Was it one kiss or two
Nine months or three
Stingy and stubborn, relentless is she
White-knuckling scraps of time
Scenes from the movie reel of you
And of me
At her mercy
Mercifully begging for more
But she hoards
Memories

She is a temptress
Releasing parts, never wholes
Holding on greedily to finite detail
Showing fuzzy black and white reruns
When you crave HD, 3-D
Accurate truth
Memories whole, not halved
It is your life and you
Demand it back
From the shallow grave
Buried and hidden
Hungry you cry out
Longing for more
Memories

But she is protector and guard she must.

She is creative, witty and wise
She shades the blue teal that you thought grey
You swore it was azure, she insists it was slate
Erases and deletes
That year in New York you were swallowed up
In pain, by fear
Give her permission
She has taken it
Anyway
She decides what to include
And what to completely
Leave out
Then out of the blue
She shows you a scene
A day in the life
You’d dropped like a dime on the street

The timing is perfect
Like a fig picked from the tree
Ready to  savor with honey
And goat cheese
Like loaves and fishes are multiplied
So does she
Find the best days and parts
To amplify, embellish and increase
And release
Memory of you
And of me

She is a lady holding the keys
To the life, the story, the telling again and again

The story of me
Not exact, not perfectly remembered
But just
As she has determined
It should be
She is a lady
Gentle and kind
Not cruel

I must tell myself
Again and again
Lost in my own
Memories
Fading
And dim

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Joining Laura and Michelle