Some days,
I feel as if I am just too old
to be this young still…
A childless mother —
Funny I never thought I would weep over those words,
But I do now.
Because I am a childless mother who knows all too well
how time can be stopped,
And cropped like a film with no plot.
One who knows of so many ways a woman can be lost.
But,
If souls are like light,
And time is a souvenir of this life
then maybe the truth is,
We are never old enough,
We’ve never been here long enough.
Because a flash of light that is free
can cross eons of space in seconds
And never age
How bright it can be
the day you see it all for what it is
We are mending time,
In our bodies every day
And there are some,
healers, as well as haters,
who know that soul loss is just non-consensual time travel,
who know just how powerful
a fracture is.
When it is made when someone wanted something
You weren’t willing to give.
*
To remember the child I was,
To mend the songs she was singing,
Was the biggest effort I have ever made,
My way-finding try.
My way-finding try to remember what it felt like to be filled with light,
On an October night,
Poetry falling like the moonlight,
like the brightest insight,
in a child’s mind.
A child trying so hard to be as ancient as her words were,
The ones no one else heard,
See, even then I was in the wrong time.
How I used to love the sound those words made.
How little I knew then of the pain
mending the music of them,
year after year would bring.
How little I knew of each and every way our words can be torn from one another,
Our bodies divided.
Each way a sound we make can be isolated and made to feel alone,
Made to despise the other sounds we make.
As if Red could be just red,
Or blue could be just blue.
As if the world preferred the din of our disconnection,
to the sound of our basking in the light of our moons.
Sometimes I think about how strong people are,
Way-finders, all of us.
How much faith, no matter how absurd, we must have
In linear time,
And our goodness,
In our right to believe we have been here all along,
How much faith we have to have in our right to find our way back to the light,
To the essence of ease, of peace, and flight.
How brave it is to reach for the words within us, that on
Most days,
There is no running ahead of,
Only falling behind ancient things.
Now a days, I slow myself down enough to feel love for every striving, every failure, to catch up with the beauty of it.
All the prisms that were set before it
to confuse the fusion of light
That always remained perfect anyway.
Because a praise poem comes to you every night,
for the light
When the nesting moon in the minds eye of a child
Sets her off on her biggest way-finding try,
for the first time.
A precious, forgetful, hope to reunite with a light that was never gone.
I see her eyes again now,
And I know they are mine.
Those bright striving eyes of a childless mother
Mending time
Always
To old and too young,
Leave a Reply