Knead.

Knead.

 

Dis­tur­bance.

Shift­ing uneasi­ly in our seats,

we bow our heads and search for spir­its float­ing by.

We lis­ten, urgent­ly seek­ing some break in the dron­ing famil­iar­i­ty of the pro­gram we hold tight­ly in sweaty palms.

This is real.

More real for sure than we would wish,

more real than our spir­it selves would hope for!

Anchored by heavy hymns and rote prayer.

By stiff suits and wood­en pews!

We wish for fales­hood!

But draw back to real­i­ty when a splin­ter

brings unwant­ed atten­tion to our back­side!

 

Always here!

The crow caws, a dog barks,

and the win­dows begin to glow

with the pale­ness of a dawn still damp.

I grow rest­less beneath the cov­ers.

I am awake.

Here in the almost light of morn­ing

are shad­ows built from pos­si­bil­i­ty.

But with­out eyes to dis­cern the truth,

the room might as well be bare.

I open the win­dow,

Try for flight.

But before launch­ing myself

I pause and back away -

Hov­er­ing, at the end,

near rem­nants of moon­light, and the dark.

Here stands the World.

Full to over­flow­ing with Spir­it words and watch­fires.

Full and bright with the under­stand­ing that lights the path

to adven­tures and lost inno­cence.

It Stands, ready with answers.

While I stand back,

Frozen -

Con­vinced that dawn must break for a rea­son

and not sim­ply out of chance.

I stand back.

Pet­ri­fied like the wood around me

but not sat­is­fied to stay with­in the rings of its warm caress.

I cast forth with wish­es and day­dreams,

Seek some­thing more than what I made me when I had the chance.

I wait in shad­ows with my eyes closed.

Dream­ing not dreams, but day­dreams!

Not liv­ing –

Long­ing!

I long for Sun­light.

For a vista filled with the kinds of light and view­points

that can’t be seen any­more,

except in the mind’s eye!

In my eye, if I still had it,

or if by pawn­ing some­thing else could buy some sight from women

who were witch­es when my dawn was still but dream.

 

Fam­i­ly resem­blance.

You look like your moth­er.

And I, despite my sex,

seem des­tined to join you there.

I see us some­times, as if from some­where else.

We are like can­dle­sticks from dif­fer­ent house­holds -

Imper­fect­ly matched, but still stand­ing side by side.

We laugh into the same sound­track.

Sing the same song most days, although in dif­fer­ent pitch.

We look the same,

but with out­looks less like each oth­er

than either of us might have wished.

Wished at least, if the choice was ours to make.

At least until the box comes,

and I open it, look­ing deep­er inside than you could have –

Look­ing, for all the world then,

more like my father!

Look­ing into his eyes now, and like them.

I think some­times that there are dreams left over from oth­er lives!

Oth­er songs, left unsung by their authors,

but insis­tent that some­one sing them!

Some­one!

Some new spir­it, some sweet link to that oth­er world

when the song was sung, almost –

When there was still some­thing left worth singing,

and the answer to why I came here was worth more than the life I left behind!

Worth more than the song. More than the mir­ror!

More than the dreams we had

when the mir­ror looked like some­thing more like you.

I look like…

Who?

We look into sun­shine,

and the light we see reminds us of anoth­er time.

We stand singing to the sounds of Sun­shine!

Singing.

There are more mir­rors left

than we might have dreamed there’d be.

More mir­rors.

More mad­ness in the look that looks like me!

More mir­rors!

Do I look like you then?

Or like some friend­ly fiend that lurks beneath both our real­i­ties!

Nev­er here! Not here. Not in the mir­ror,

no less in a dream!

 

Those left behind…

Stone steps -

An incline unre­lent­ing.

I fal­ter,

scram­ble,

take my cane,

then wish for even foot­ing –

Or for legs

more young than these.

I pause –

Find a seat

and hope for brighter eyes.

Is this the place?

I pray now, count­ing steps!

Then won­der, is this my turn?

Con­fu­sion takes me for an instant,

inspir­ing ter­ror

and a need for con­trol.

I Will myself back to still­ness

Sight returns.

I see now,

here’s the way!

I look up,

See that stone sur­rounds me.

I run my hand over the near­est face,

feel­ing fear,

then fear­ing envy.

I am alone.

Unsure of both this jour­ney,

and of my own abil­i­ty to take it.

I lean for­ward,

half insane now.

I take a breath, catch myself,

then wipe my face

to keep the tears away.

Breath of air,

a minute’s rest, per­haps two.

Feel­ing bet­ter,

I move for­ward.

Turn here,

breathe,

Rest.

Anoth­er turn and I feel bet­ter,

now in sight of you.

Embar­rass­ment makes me pause,

push back my hair.

I smooth my skirts, take ungain­ly steps

toward your rest­ing place,

your qui­et place.

I find you,

touch your stone reminder.

I sit myself beside you,

and wish, despite myself, and all I might believe,

for a hand to help me home.