Had the pleasure to have a muse
for awhile...
one that inspired in me
a language
that was deeper and richer
than I had yet known.
During that time
volumes of poetry were produced
in a desperate attempt to record
moments that were merely on loan,
it seemed.
Tho the muse is no more,
this body of work
stands as "hands down"
my best and most prolific work
as if someone else had written it.
Thinking it a shame to let it hide
in a digital file
one I don't have the courage
to open most times
but when I do
it takes my breath away
and I believe in something
more than myself...
This is one!
One Saturday
a 10 year olds'
map of forgotten places,
precedes a 12 year olds'
life story...
hauntingly read at twilight,
a picnic of buses and
story telling walks
heels to desert dust,
a dance of wind playing
“rock a bye puppy”
and strings tethered
to colored air,
when scarey Santa goes bye bye,
her 15 year old
misplaced voice
is found
against a sky
of blue and pink ribbons,
adult dream weavers
read and listen to
the treasure of old words
of a brave teenager
& runaway pony moments...
are understood,
one Saturday...
the unreinable wild one
and the moon eyed flower child
find themselves wondering over
themselves and one another
as grown women admittedly lucky
to know this and that...
and the surprise
of finding a “kindred child”
far from the fern forests
of the midwest,
in a place where skies dazzle
and the earth
knows how to create
gardens of heart shaped stones.
Pam Piper Rain
