The Berry Bush

Stoic, she relinquishes her treasures.

Fingers swish, palms purple with the richness

of the gift. She whispers soft

but I am occupied; berries bounce in a plastic

pail to the rhythm of songbirds.

 

The old-timers say

that the harvest is only heavy every

seven years. This is the one in seven-

fat orbs dazzle the eye

and my pail overflows quick,

tongue stained and smug.

 

I strip the branches easiest to reach, careful to

pry into intimate places, seek

her secrets with greedy grasp. I slow. Here, not all are

perfectly ripe. My fingers must pull with

respect, leave the immature for a later picking.

 

The pails are piling purple. Content, I

step back, prepare to sail home

with cargo hold brimming. I stretch,

look up. More. And more, and more hang. I hear it

indistinct, this lesson. On tiptoe, the blessings are harder to

harvest, require more of my complacency.

 

Patience prickles. Fingers falter, accidental purple showers

to the earth. Joints creak, muscles strain,

and here is the true miracle,  saved for last. Fullness scrapes the dirt

plump and glad. The  equation comes

clear, and I laugh aloud with the unexpected joy of it –

 

for when do blessings not hang in clusters,

ripe and ready to pick? And how is great glory not

gained with a stretch of stained hands toward heaven?

Which good and surprising delights

were not made the sweeter by bowing of the head

and bending of the knee?

 

I hear her now.

Her syllables ring loud in the silence.

And I, who teach for a living,

am schooled by the berry bush.

 

Today She’s Finally Letting Go

Today she’s finally letting go,

She’ll give her past the slip;

Regrets like raindrops gently flow

From empty fingertips.

naked branch.jpg

Hefty while she clutched them tight,

These burdens, weightless, slide;

Regarded from her newfound height,

She fancies they were lies.

The Great Unravelling

egyptian-mummy

Here lies 2018,

behind her glass barrier,

shrouded in mystery. The hand I stretch out

cannot quite hide its tremor. What will I encounter beneath

her folds? Curses or capital, fortune or

fright? Nothing is certain

but the compulsion to peel back

that first layer. Exhilaration battles anxiety. Where to start? There is the smell of death –

but also the tang of adventure and promise of new knowledge about her. And so

it begins.

Each moment, each day, each

month unravels more of her riddles until at last every

secret cavity has been divested of its contents. Some turns of the wrist

will reveal treasures,

things hidden from days of old, joyous to untie. Others

horrify, fill the nostrils with the stench of decay and loss –

even then she demands to be set free of her wrappings

layer by layer, day by day. Until she is free of her casement

the baubles and bones seem disjointed, unrelated,

entries in the catalog to be studied by greater minds. But

after her 365 day burial,

her treasures and triumphs, grievances and gloom

will be placed with care in the display cases of my heart. They are messy,

these artifacts. Random bits of broken pottery,

gems – uncut and unrecognizable,

scarabs encased in amber. When studied,

wrestled with,

polished to reveal their glory,

then and only then will she divulge her beauty. Taken as a

collection,

the years lined up in their coffins give context to my past,

enable me to excavate the Truth of who I am.

Whatever this year hides, this wrapped enigma,

for good or for ill

she is mine to enearth.

My fingers find the tattered fabric

and pull…

Image Copyrighted by Historylink101.com & found at Egyptian Picture Gallery.

Transformation

frosty spruce

Just as frost makes pearls from pain and covers plain with glory,

So your faith can glean the grain within your painful story;

When you feel the pinch of frost, the sting of cold rejection,

Know one day when it has lost, you’ll be a grace confection.

Accession

dangler

Death becomes her, highlights power

In this final golden hour;

It takes strength to grant demise

To Less, that More would be the prize.

Solemn spill, these dreams that fall,

Graveyard draped in leafy pall;

Wail she will, while pain is fresh –

But soon, her bones will gain new flesh.

 

 

 

Stand

dreamy tree

You’ve watched them fade, these fragile dreams you sowed

when innocence was freshly minted, the shade

of spring meadows. Just when they felt full-grown,

they yellowed, curled, leaves from an ancient and

shabby book. You lost your grip;

now they lie scattered at your feet, crisp in their

brokenness. You could have died with them – no one

would have blamed you if you had joined your fallen

comrades in all their ashen stillness. Yet here you

stand, head high, arms outstretched,

hands open, expectant. You are an oak,

sinewy and solid. Storms have toughened your skin,

stiffened more than your upper lip,

rooted you in profound places. And I think,

perhaps,

that if you can stand tall after all you’ve lost,

I could stand, too.

I, Rapunzel

Rapunzel

I, Rapunzel, clutched the tighter to my golden mane;

You, the wooer, prince and fighter, struggled to unchain

All those strands that held me captive to the distant past;

Strangled hopes and maladaptive dreams I had amassed

Like treasure chests with broken stocks, reduced by time to rust;

Death had killed my golden locks, and crumbled them to dust.

‘Let down your hair!’ your battle cry resounded in the dark;

But tendons tightened, terrified of barren branches; stark

My thoughts, unclothed my heart, as hope dared warm my blood;

One by one upon the start, and then a torrent flood

Descended in a golden cloud, until I stood unveiled –

Beneath my feet, a golden shroud, where former visions paled.

And now I wait, a bare-skinned maid, my Prince has won me fair;

For with the spring, I’ll grow new braids, fresh dreams will crown my hair.