A Perfect Love
Long ago, I had a baby cousin in another land.
She spoke, but not one word did we have in common,
yet there was nothing we did not understand.
She would sit upon my lap for hours.
I can still feel her pudgy arms wrapped around my neck,
rubbery taut like a balloon.
How safe I felt.
Maybe you know, too, how little words matter
when the eyes, the tone, tell all.
My mother, a teen, cared for her mother, a baby,
many years before.
Did something pass down to us, I wonder?
And when I left, a gorge of grief came.
The gorge now just a tiny drawstring sack,
open now and spilling,
but mostly tied and tucked away.
My baby cousin is 30 now.
Here and not here. How can that be?
Nostalgia
A frayed, ancient blanket. Its light, loose threads tucked into crevices darkened by time. Their existence unnoticed until they are tugged—hardly, softly.
You cannot go back, they say. Yet we live so much of our lives in our illusory past.
It is a book that glows within us when held, though the story is long forgotten.
But what we yearn for has never left. It cannot leave, for the heart is where home is.
We Are the Sky
How are we not the sky?
It envelops and enters us through our breath, our unsealed skin.
How are we not the rain?
It shares our blood, and all that is fluid within us.
How are we not the sun?
It stokes its flames within us and keeps us vital. It feeds all that feed us.
How are we not the Earth?
We are bound to it, never rising from it for long.
We need no connection. We are but one.
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image 1: ronymichaud