The Vessel

The old woman sits,
her milky eyes see nought now
but shapes bent out 
by the flames of the fire beside her.

Her bones still strong,
her skin the give away,
made as it is of the sheerest silk
crumpled and dyed in hues of purple and blue.

She can no longer hear the stories
which now fill her belly, her heart:
her mind, though bright, has absorbed
all the cries for attention it can absorb.

So she sits and others gather
While she pours forth her timelessness,
speaking of the love she learned
in a lifetime of heartache and joy.

A strong voice radiates her light, her dark,
valueless and priceless in equal measure.
She is who she is with no apology
and all who hear her rest in that.

A Poem for Moments of Anxiety

We move through hot and cold,
Hot and cold.

There is grass;
There is sky;
There is breath.....

Are you paying attention to the
Punctuation?
The pauses:
There to let you take your time;
There to allow a slowing down.

There is no hurry.

Let's start again.

We move through hot and cold,
Hot and cold.

There is grass;
There is sky;
There is breath.....
Solid earth supports us;
And there is more air
Than we can ever draw into our lungs.

There is a woman of years,
Her thin, soft skin
Sags gently in paper wrinkles:
I want to follow them with my finger,
Experience such delicacy
That could tear open,
If pressed with more than the lightest touch.

Dragonflies dance,
Flashing their iridescence
In waves of sunlight.
Their turquoise hue matches my mascara,
Though I don't think they've noticed:
They are utterly absorbed in what they are doing.

Here is breath;
Here are fingers;
Here is flesh.....

I am steadfast as a tree trunk,
As light as a leaf.

In-spire.....
Out-spire.....
No need for anything more.