I am fluid
as the river
flowing through a canyon.
I am not stagnant water
standing
still in a bucket.
I am rippling,
rolling,
unbroken.
I am free.
I am fluid
as the river
flowing through a canyon.
I am not stagnant water
standing
still in a bucket.
I am rippling,
rolling,
unbroken.
I am free.
The darkest hours
will unravel the light.
Waiting,
questioning
the conundrum.
Disentanglement
will be late coming.
In Mariupol, the smoke
is rising.
The land is ravaged.
In the steel factory
the girl has sheltered
52 days
underground.
All she wants is to
see the sun.
It’s out and available!
As difficult as it is to remember,
the history and sentiments will remind us
that we can never afford to forget.
I am proud and I feel honored to share
these poems,
these stories that I will carry with me forever.
It's been my honor to write this book.
I heard that
thanks is a prayer.
Thanks is enough.
Struggles arise,
angels and saviors.
Old scripture along side the new.
I have morphed
from the faithful
to the spiritual.
I read verses,
I listened to chants.
I am my father's daughter.
He claimed to find refuge and
communion anywhere.
He crawled from death to life.
He dwelt in the moment
because nothing is promised.
It was a gift
that he unknowingly handed to me.
I find solace.
I find sanctuary,
in a dark room or
under a vast sky.
Sitting beneath a sequoia tree,
peace spreading within,
within.
I inherited his optimism and
his despair.
I inherited his aura.
His spirit dwells in the
walls of my house,
when I light the memorial candles
on Friday nights.
The light glows.
I walk through the shadows
feeling less alone.
Thank you is my prayer.
Thank you for a thousand mornings
of silence.
A thousand mornings of love.
Thank you on paper ships
in the bay,
and rose-colored dreams.
Thank you though struggles
and failures.
Thank you.
My mother welcomed the sabbath,
lighting candles.
Her head covered,
her eyes closed
as she whispered her prayer.
Her house spotless.
The smells from the kitchen intoxicating.
Her table was adorned with a white
starched tablecloth and
crystal goblets for wine.
Silently she uncovered her head,
the way her mother had,
and her mother before her.
My mother's mother accumulated
a dowry when I was born.
Dishes and lines all chosen with intention
but mostly love.
She is present in my thoughts
as I think of my granddaughter.
Holding silver candlesticks that
I will gift to her.
How beautiful they are
for the home that she will make
some day.
Her eyes sparkle bright,
her smile is infectious.
Her sweet face can light
desolate paths,
and dark days and nights.
She was born with a crown on her head,
during a global pandemic.
The days were challenging
but she was the sun and the moon.
Enveloping us with love
from her first smile.