lazy drops of rain slide down the window
a sigh of relief drifts from my breath and settles,
comfortably, around me
outside my window jasmine vines dance erratically under the
onslaught of heavy, languid drops;
this is no whisper of delicate rain
but a torrential respite of long-awaited showers
voluptuous, gray-hued clouds ease themselves onto the shore,
making landfall as they leave their ocean voyage behind
they roll stoically towards the mountains,
releasing their renewing nectar onto the desperately
dry land below
plants quiver in the promise of these falling drops,
leaves reach out longingly to gather each, tiny blessing,
roots swell with anticipation in the slowly-drenching soil
and I melt, thankfully, into the promise of renewal
a soft murmuring
like the susurrus of a cool, trickling creek faintly
heard through the damp, dark lushness of the forest
or the creeping cobwebs of anxiety crawling stealthily up my spine,
delicate feet burrow into the sanctity of my peace while I try
and breathe through the most simplest of tasks
like the susurrus of gently scraping oak branches,
bending and dancing in the steady, melodic rush
of an afternoon breeze up the river valley
or the incessant, repetitive tapping of doubt-filled fingers on my conscience
asking, “am I doing enough, living enough, loving enough…am I enough?”
like the susurrus of ocean waves calmly, rhythmically unfolding themselves onto
the beach under a star-sprinkled sky illuminating musicians joyously playing
around tall, flickering flames
or the words of my mother, on the subject of having children young,
“if I could do it again, I would do it differently”
The susurrus may be a whisper but I hear it loud and clear!
the anxiety is not always tiny feet tip-toeing across my skin but a hammer,
nailing my ear to the whipping post, it is only with my strength of will
and determination that I can rip myself away from the pain and torture
the doubt is not always a gentle tapping
but a flood, a deluge of tears washing down my face,
cleansing me of my attachments and my sins
the words of my mother are not always fleeting reminiscences,
but a blazing standard of success and happiness to
base the decisions of MY life upon
The susurrus may be a whisper but I hear it loud and clear!
Post Election Invocation
I knew she was there,
buried deep beneath the softness
of a good life,
of plates filled with nourishment,
laughing children and
A soldier sleeping wistfully
through times of peace,
but never fully rousing to the agitation
It was not the moment I first learned she was there
two blue lines boldly marching across the
plastic barometer of my hormones,
It was not the moment I decided to not
forcibly vacate her from my womb,
nor the first flutterings of her movements
inside the staged waters of my inheritance.
It was not the euphoric moment of
meeting her after the battle of birth,
nor the first time I held her to my breast
for the life sustaining milk of our ancestors,
These are not the moments that define for me
the before and after.
It was later,
alone with her for the first time,
her newly born body snuggled next to mine
sleeping off the exhaustion of one at the
crux of a journey.
I sang songs to her of people devoted to the earth
and was flooded with visions of
mothers from around the world,
mothers forced to send their children into
the chaos of violence and hate,
hoping upon prayers they survive to find
safety… and love,
for the first time I was able to glimpse
a fraction of their suffering.
Becoming a mother was painful.
A surrendering of my peace of mind,
a severance from innocence and blind joy,
my heart torn wide open,
compassion and grief pouring from a vessel
that finally understood what it is to
love with everything you have.
It was not a sweet sentiment written
inside of a hallmark card,
but a volcano,
erupting in an explosion of rawness,
love and sorrow and joy and fear
oozing down slopes to form a lush, vibrant land
where life grows and prospers.
12 years I have been a mother,
a third of my life.
And now this,
this crumbling façade of safety
with the election of one man.
A reminder that in this beautiful forest
of ancient trees and blooming wildflowers,
there are wolves!
Animals known to hunt and kill for the fun of it.
This election is a call to battle,
An awakening of a deep, ancient instinct
My inner warrior, She is here,
scrubbing away the rust,
shining the metal of her breastplate so
they can see the brilliance of righteousness,
donning her armor,
with intention and the
fierceness of a lion.
I have three daughters,
the three faces of the Goddess represented in
the gifts of my body.
I have been the maiden,
sweet innocence in the new growth of spring.
I am the mother,
eternal nurturer and provider,
I am learning to be the crone,
gathering the wisdom of life.
But let us not forget the fourth face,
the dark moon,
the dark Goddess,
Let us not forget the fierce, protective Mother!
let us not forget the divine liberator!
Let us not forget the powerful, vengeful destroyer!
Let us not forget Kali!
I am dying,
slowly strangled in the cracking clay
my roots push deeper into the soil,
stretch towards water that carved
its home centuries ago,
gone now for years,
diverted and drained in 1 season.
I watched hopelessly as young Salmon
suffocated in the warming puddle,
tried to spread my branches a bit further,
to offer shade in hopes of some relief,
but it was not enough
Salmon died and their spawn
will swim up this stream no more.
My wilted leaves ruffle in the breeze
reminding me of Owl’s feathers before flight
now only a memory.
Owl left with the sound of ‘prosperity’,
of primitive civilization amplified,
a steady drone unceasing in the night
She left to search for quieter hunting grounds
her mate lay poisoned and rotting in a field
unable to accompany her.
Where once I gazed upon meadows of wildflowers
there is now row upon row of feathery, bushy foliage
no deer wandering amongst a rainbow of vitality
nor bees to harmonize with the wind.
My brittle leaves drop like mice fleeing
a burrow discovered by Snake
I look to the creek bed,
dusty and barren,
water a blurred memory,
and I pray for rain
as only a dying tree can.