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Years since last I'd done so,
I took leisure at leaning back against
the only remaining oak tree
left standing in front of my
grandmother's house.
I've often returned to this place
in hopes that her spirit might
somehow impart wisdom
unto me, whilst I stood
beneath the branches
which shielded me from
the sun of so many
youthful summers.
I took note that
the winter winds blowing my hair
across my face reminded me
of a passage I read
just hours before,
so I closed my eyes so that
I might have a few seconds
to take in the sensation
of being connected to
the author.
My pleasant musings were
interrupted by the sound of
dozens of geese flying overhead
in typical triangular formation.
Quilting was Grandmother's passion,
with the "goose triangle" being
the pattern she most liked
to utilize in her designs.
"Quilting is an artistic representation
of the relationship between
love and life, not just fabric and
thread; warming you from the
love put into each stitch, not the
heat generated by the covering
of the body," she wrote beneath
a colorfully decorated sketch of
a quilt she didn't live long
enough to complete.
As the geese passed without
taking note of my pleading
gaze, I whispered into the
chilled air "let the Dakinis
guide you," and hoped
Grandmother would
also pay heed to my request.
The sky cleared of the passing
birds and I waited still
for an answer. I noticed then
a lone goose circling widely
above me, left behind by
the others. I forgot for a
moment my want
for answers and instead
took pity upon the creature,
relating how I, too, often
felt lost in my solitary
travels.
Connectivity in experience
of both animal and man
is ever present, though
our eyes have been
blinded by our own conjectures
of dominion. Yet had
Grandmother often
directed my sight towards
proof that our
steps are in unison
with the movement
of the Earth and all of
its inhabitants.
I silently prayed then
that the abandoned
traveler would let
the winter sun
act as compass and direct
her towards those who
had long sense flew into
distances unseen.
Hearing then a single call
from the direction of the
deserting flock
came one single bird.
Her wings rising and
falling in what I
imagined was fueled
by both instinct
and divine purpose.
Both geese began circling
the area just above me
and i left the protection
of the familiar tree.
Stepping out into
the clearing, and with
voyeuristic view,
watched the dance of flight
between the two.
Only seconds fell away
as the birds came closer
together in flight.
Then, without sound
of call heard, the two
took leave into the
opposite direction of
the gaggle of geese
which now they were
separated, albeit
together, from.
I watched as they closely
raised wings and height
in unison,
in search of waters
and refuge and smiled
at having witnessed
their elopement.
After coupled minutes
elapsed, I walked back
towards the Oak, put
gloves in pocket, then
placed my fingertips
upon the bark and felt
a sense of peace in
knowing my answer
had been given.
If we are ever to find
the partner which
leads us safely to
water, who forgoes
the safety of that
which is the norm
just to ensure we
are not lonesome
nor without nourishment,
we must first allow
ourselves the freedom
to fly alone in deserted skies.
Faith that our wings
will not tire before
we are joined in flight
will grant us the pleasure
of feeling the warmth of
sunlight upon our backs
as the wind carries
us onward, if only
until the moment
when our companion,
at last,
arrives.

My accent has never been indicativeof the location in which I was raised.My tone inflections have lead othersto mistake my identity, at timeseven my ethnicity, until suchtime as they laid eyes upon me.So perhaps when I prayed,God didn't recognize my voice,confused me with someone elseor the droning noiseof a demanding worlddiscomposed his comprehending,as it seemed he confused my pleafor a "happy ending," to meaneach time I loved, I wouldinvariably thank Godit was "happILYending."Certainly God could not have thoughtthat I prayed for this solitaryexistence, that what I desired asthat happiness spanned such a shortamount of time. Or perhaps Godthought he knew my mind betterthan me. Though I focus onintrospection, I've never reallygot comfortable with myselfinternally. So maybe God puthis plan into action rightfully,without my consent nor myapproval.Or perchance God didn’t want tobe responsible for my downfallfrom grace or wrongfully thoughtmy heart was invincible, but hisfaith in my strength was misplaced,as I truly am not that strong.They say you shouldn’tquestion God’s plan,but I confess, sometimesI wonder if tales of his omnipotence,failed to take into account that God,like so many others,simply didn’t understandmy accent.
When weathered skin marked like scars from ageis stretched across arthritic bones,I still will want to warm your fingerswith the heat I've known from clasp of hands in silence.When pillow rest beneath grayed hairwhile you dream of youth and spring, the sunset upon your face will be as breathtaking to me as those nights we spent off the Bali Coast when first we fell in love. And though my heart might fill with grief as our life together comes to a close,I will voice no regrets, nor goodbyes,rather I'll whisper to you the poemsI rehearsed while you slept in my arms throughout these years. I will shelter you from every hell, I will wet your lips with ice,No outer hate will affect us,As we'll be hidden from the world,Lost within the gaze of each others' eyes.
Looked up from the pan of fishI'd been up frying until nearly 3amto ask if she wanted one piece or two.But before I could smile, she said"I can't stand bitches like you,thinking we need for you to save us."I looked down at her two sons,about the age of my own daughtersand back up to eyes filled with disgust,trying to diffuse the situationand asked if she'd prefer to get it herself.Turned the tongs backwards & reached out,and she slapped them out of my hand."See, that's exactly the shit I mean. You can'texplain yourself so you just pass it back offto me." So often we are steeped in ourown histories and too consumed by animosityto eat what's given to us by thosewho can't see beyond what they're offering.I thought to tell her I'd been on the receiving sideof a similar shelter food line, but there are timeswhen trying to identify serves only to furtherdivide the lines between yourself and thosewho are in need
So rather than turn it back toa story about me and what I'd been through,I simply picked back up the tongs and said"I'm just here to serve you, so ma'amwhat will it be, one piece or two?"She bitingly asked "why can't I have three or four?Your fat ass planning on taking some of this homewith you?" And I thought to tell her how I'd saved upmoney for weeks, went without life's pleasantries,took food from my own freezer andcabinets to ensure a shelter with no fundshad enough to feed everyone in the line. But the point of servitude is notin attempting to garner the gratitudeof the people in your line,rather it's to give selfishly and many timesthere will come no time for hugs and thanksno photo opportunities, no warm feelingfrom the community that you feel led to help.So, again, I said "one piece or two,"as I placed four pieces upon her plate,whispered to her "now this is justbetween me and you" and winked.She smirked at me and took her timeto move down the line,before she took her trayand sat down in the cornerwith her two young kingsfollowing closely behind her.I looked from pan up tothe next woman in lineand asked "one piece or two"and the line moved on and on.