Poem: Of Things That Pass

Me in a Tree, in India

Me in a Tree, in India

Of Things That Pass

I fall before you, big wind.

I am tired, and need a tree to sit under,

I have been waiting such a long time.

If I can’t live there, yet,

on the horizon’s far side, I would

like at least to turn my eyes

upward to the sky’s streaky,

crimson dreams.

I want to feel beauty’s skin

on my skin, a life’s sum of the simplest

things, the wild belly laughs of

youth, hair all messed up

from wild play on a fearless day.

I didn’t know what I had,

I didn’t have the capacity for

acknowledgement.

I have searched long and deep,

entwining with life’s decorations,

flirting with emptiness,

that beguiling, sinewy story

that never runs out,

the way I will run out.

I want to start with beauty,

Of things that pass,

wheels of merriment

topping the world.

It’s time to build the magic

together, even as I crawl low

to the ground, the sun long set,

where I can fall into

Earth’s green embrace,

Soaked after rain, a universe of

Scents, textures and hope.

This poem was first published in Women’s Spiritual Poetry, Journey to the Heart, here.

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