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Compost
I am from mislabeled trophies,
From her and her Peter Pan shadow.
I am from “she did” and “she died” so “let’s each eat a cupcake.”
I am from harnessed turtles in the Virginia
backyard,
Caught and released from thin knotted string,
Scratched with scarlet Crayola to maybe find someday.
I am from my mother’s peacock feather earrings,
Embroidered in ancient thread that sometimes smells like molded French perfume,
Protected by clasped jewelry bowl and mini silver swan,
Like her garden that was wrapped with electric-wired fence.
I am from the sharing of vanilla ice-cream and sticky root
beer,
Sitting together beneath the Tucson sun and sky,
And the funerals of friendship half-hearts which lost meaning
Through the neglect they experienced.
I am from the porcelain my great-grandmother gave me,
And her dog that only snarled,
Everything she had – becoming a burden – which her family could not disown.
I’m from that selfish pride.
With blue and white sweater as my constant companion,
A loyal secret in disguise – toothless pit bull – lifeless friend.
I’m from the Eiffel tower that cracked and crippled,
And the glue that almost fixed it.
From the compost of vegetable and others' forgotten lives, these I'm from.
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The Creek and the Willow
When I was a little girl
I used to play by the bubbling creek
And the elegant willow
Standing by its side
In the spring, when
Everything was green
And blooming, the willow’s
Long strands of silver-green hair
Would brush the creek
Like they were
Holding hands
In the summer, when
The creek would rush past
Filled with rain from
Summer storms
Lapping up over the edges of
The bank and cooling off
The willow’s gnarled roots
In the fall, when
The willow’s yellowing leaves
Rode the currents of the creek
Like little sailboats
Spiraling downstream
Splashes of paint
On a glassy canvas
In the winter, when
The willow would be bare,
The aged branches covered with snow
And the creek, once so
Full of laughter, now still and somber
Imprisoned with ice, but
I could still sense something
Warm there
And when I was all grown up
Visiting my childhood
I expected to see the willow’s
Green leaves whispering secrets
To the creek
But instead there was
A rotting trunk, and a mere
Trickle of water through
A worn path of dried soil
Still, nothing had
Really changed
For when the trunk
Returns to the soil
And the trickle of water
Finally soaks into the
Earth, it can once again
Join its willow
Sometimes, when I stand
On the green grass
Now covering that cherished
Place
I can still hear the willow
Singing lullabies to its creek
And the creek cuddling
Against its friend
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Silent Fall
Part I
The architect lay dying there,
was all alone at home in bed.
With shaking hand on paper bare,
he drew the image in his head.
It was imagination, though
bold colors blossomed bright as gems
The stained glass windows were aglow
with sunlight streaming in through them
Two spires soared above the church
and seemed the Heavens to serenade
As snowy white as bark on birch,
they were as pure as his faith stayed.
The architect lay dying there,
that he could live he sent a prayer.
And then! he drew a breath of air;
for his church the man was spared
His health now in abundance came;
his cheeks reclaimed their rosy hue.
His breathing became smooth again,
and he rose up to dreams pursue.
He hired a team of builders then,
and asked them to create his vision.
they worked all day as he watched them-
to build this church became his mission.
He stayed there past the time they 1eft
in fact, he stayed all night —
he said it was to prevent theft,
but all his friends knew it was fright.
For what would happen if the church
for which the man was spared
came crashing down upon the ground?
To think he did not dare.
He stayed there all throughout the year,
through summer, fall, and winter, spring,
the sunshine made him look so pale,
the summer breeze his frail voice made
so thin and quavering.
And in the winter, shivering,
fat tears dropped from his eyes
just like the icy snowflakes fell
from ominous winter skies.
His desperate heart a-pounded with
the workers’ hammers on the nails
and with each blow his heart was bound
more tightly to his church.
Even through his many trials,
he could not pull away.
All through those endless months he stayed,
so frightened and afraid;
but as the building did soar high,
his confidence was great.
And when the church was finally done,
he stood back and admired
his handiwork for which he had
exhaustingly aspired.
“’Tis stunning!” he proclaimed once more,
then o’er and o’er again;
he sighed and murmured as he slept,
“I will live on, and worry not:
My work at last is done!”
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Part II
It needs a final touch, he thought —
a spire reaching up to Heaven.
A staircase rising up to God
so man might see His great domain.
All by himself, be built the spire,
the third and final one;
and then he climbed atop and perched,
surveying the world he’d won.
The skies grew stormy, silence fell;
as swirling clouds surrounded him,
swooped down like birds of Hell,
the man collapsed and prayed again,
his flowing tears a silent hymn.
I beg,” he cried, “I beg of thee,
do please forgive my sin!
For it was done unwittingly —
of mine, a simple whim!”
But then he sobbed, more useless still
became his every plea.
As did the Lord, the poor man knew
he’d meant his every deed.
And in his faith he’d been deceived,
it was his love and not his fear
God wanted all along...
and not a church, but prayers to bear,
Those cries for help in song.
A silence darker still’s descent
came with a static feel;
a crackle in the air and then
a wrenching crack besplit the steeple.
The lightning hit the tallest spire;
His smile of triumph froze.
He toppled down in agony;
his life was coming to a close.
And sprawled upon the ground he saw
his lovely church once more.
The moon behind it cast a shroud
like sand kicked up upon a shore.
Illuminated thus it fell,
with stone by stone cascading down,
an endless torrent plummeting
so eerie and without a sound.
And in each stone the architect
was startled his reflection showed,
as in a polished looking glass.
He cried defeat and groaned and moaned,
his lasting struggle o’er at last.
Then bloomed a cloud of dust just like
a drifting plume of smoke; and then,
resounding through the night did come
a mighty blast and crash.
Then silence once again.
The church he’d drawn painstakingly
was ruined as the man lay dying.
He knew it was his own fault but
still he lay, guilt-ridden and crying.
A single rose unfolded in
the rubble of the church façade.
The architect rolled over and
was still, his face away from God.
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