Why years of contemplation
of potentials yet seen,
of in between jobs
thought of as weigh-stations
on the way to some hidden liberation.
While I worked and
tended financial survival,
when did I begin to think
my calling could sit
on some readily available shelf-
just waiting for my involvement,
my fearless and full commitment.
To work in buildings which
hold final their function,
almost leaning back against the
precipice of possibility. A world
revealed beyond them-
a reverie of mine confined
in momentary sterility.
The unseen wisdom of impetuous youth,
the desperate impulse of engaging what
presses immediate and unique.
For as time and chance
collide again and again,
we are never the same and
what we truly love and desire
never presents itself in
quite the same way.
How did my potential become bait
on the back-burner of life, me
allowing it in as momentary reward
and hope, for a life yet lived.
People in transit, they share
their secret selves and go
back to lives to provide bliss for
a later day, as have I.
Yet my choices left roots
that break old foundations.
Where idleness once stood,
I move on.
Mom’s nursing notes from earlier this year scattered,
fallen from the table with symbols and information
from tests and time away, conveyors of their maker.
She fumbles through them muttering words from
babble, her incantation summons what they mean.
She means to materialize the constant source
of what made them, musical toys fade, chimes chime,
while wind caresses her face.
Mom’s eternal essence surfaces from these relics,
something maternal conjured by touching this card.
She bends it on each corner, the middle, crumpling shape
from its form whispering in song.