My Name Is Not Mavis

Tell Me the Story of You

What would you say?

Would you stumble or know it by heart?
Are you the star looking straight at the camera?
Or the hapless victim struggling to find a way home?
Would you tell it both ways
And discover they each matter?
Is your story an ordeal tearstained with courage;
A seamless rebirth after a hard closure?
Or is it simple. A quiet, stolen moment
That suddenly bent the angle of your trajectory.

Let me ask you this.

Would you write it on a scrap of paper
And tuck it away in a time capsule.
Or, let it echo throughout the atmosphere.
Would you record it on your phone
To be lost with the inevitable crash.
Or, do you whisper it to your closest friend
As you hold hands in the dark, safe and warm.

Tell me.

Tell me the story of you
Over and over again.
I am here to listen.
Tell me the story of you, and,
Carefully, we will hold it like a shared promise—
This beautiful complexity of being.

For my daughters, so very far away—

If I were there, I’d slip sweet notes under your pillow
For you to hold in your hands as you sleep.
In the cracks of the sidewalks, I would drop, for you to find,
Small memories of when you were adored best.
I’d order lavender skies at dusk and armfuls of gardenias
To be delivered when you expect them least.
I’d pave over every pothole and design billboards
That sing your name like a favorite song.
With every step you take, I’d throw my heart
To the ground to be used as the softest carpet.
If only I were there, my daughters, so very far away.

High Desert Afternoon

Snow banners sing from silent mountains.
The bare willows sway as they receive
A flight of small brown birds.
On the desert floor water rests patiently,
Waiting for entry after a sudden storm.
There is no rush.
A strip of clouds protects the sun
To keep it from burning out.
Boulders sit in practice of nothing.
While creatures crouch low in the shadows
Watching time unseen.

April

In the earnest morning of my latest being
I search for socks that match and a face in the mirror
That is well composed to meet the encounters
That will make me stretch my discernment
Of what makes this world tick
In the seamless experience of time.

When really, the winds of god
Pull at us like rooted trees in a tornado
Resistant to the power and leaning haplessly
To the intense and almost pleasurable delight of change.

Traveling

I could not find my destination
Because it was not where I left it.