Dividing Lines

 

source

Dividing Lines

We draw our circles smaller and smaller,
marking territory with invisible fences—
red versus blue, young versus old,
family member versus family member,
us versus them in endless variation.

The space between grows wider
while we shout across the chasm
words that never bridge the distance,
only echo back distorted.
or are unheard at all.

What we lose in the gap:
the neighbor who might have helped
carry groceries to the car,
a friend we might have made,
the conversation that could have
shifted everything slightly toward light.

Each wall we build
makes the world smaller,
makes us smaller,
until we forget
we all bleed the same red blood,
all need the same sun,
all breathe the same air,
all break and heal
in remarkably similar ways
all are looking for love.

The rifts we tend
become the graves
we dig for understanding,
burying what we might have learned,
keeping our differences alive,
and sometimes we wonder
if there is a possibility for change..

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Rift.

The Red Canoe Cap

 

The Red Canoe Cap Surrounded By Its "Siblings"

The Red Canoe Cap

In a Toronto shop window,
something yellow gold caught my eye—
above the brim a Red Canoe maple leaf
a simple baseball cap that promised
to hold more than just my wandering hair.

Three reasons pulled me toward the counter:
souvenir search, that tourist ache
for something interesting to carry home,
the honest pleasure of liking what I saw,

and most urgently, a practical way
to tame  the rebellious hair on my head.
I pulled the strap tight,
adjusted the fit until it held
my head like a second skin,
snug enough to defy
the conspiracy of wind and weather.

Since then, it has been my faithful companion—
across the Atlantic to Stockholm's cobblestones,
through Copenhagen's bicycle-lined streets,
along the beautiful lake shores of Door County.

This one hat has by now been joined by siblings:
such as Mads Nørgaardcaps from in different hues,
a growing family of cotton crowns
to match my moods and clothes,
a family of colorful brims standing guard
against the chaos above my ears.

What began as practicality
became my signature,
this curved shield that crowns me
wherever I go.

People know me now as
the woman who wears her caps,
but most do not know they are
not so much fashion as necessity,

as if my very thoughts
might scatter in the wind
without this simple anchor
keeping everything in place.

Written for "What's Going On" -- The Stories We Wear

A Few Things About Love

 

A Few Things About Love

I used to think that when love was over it was gone,
but that is wrong, wrong wrong.  Sometimes it resurfaces
at the strangest moments when you read an obituary
and find they died of cancer and you didn't even know,

or you discover they have died and you thought, of course,
an illness, but then you read it was suicide at a railroad
crossing you know well,  and you can't get that image
out of your mind.  And then you think of another who 

died of a lingering illness, and you watched firsthand
the deterioration month by month, day by day, lived with it. 
But that death at least was understandable and relatable
because all was visible and you knew, yes you knew, 

where the path would lead. Lately I cannot get death
out of my mind but know that even when love is past tense
it is never gone, and no matter how many years pass,
painful thoughts and memories will still surface in dreams.

Other times they appear in happy dreams, carefree and relaxed,
music playing loudly as we drive, hair blowing in the breeze, 
and I try to imagine that where they are on the other side
they have good dreams of me sometime,  and I smile.

****

(Please do me a favor..watch the video above.  I don't see how anyone could watch it and not identify with it in some way.)

*****

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Love Letter from the Afterlife."

Long Distance

 

Olive

Long Distance

We don’t share the same hometown anymore,
but I still reach for your voice—
crossing miles
that feel like moons and years.

You ask the same questions each time:
Any travel plans?
What book are you reading?
Anything new?

I answer again.
I mention a trip—
you won’t remember.
I name a book—
you write it down,
but won’t read it.

We reminisce sometimes—
about childhood,
about those years working at the same school.
Those talks feel like solid ground.

I tell you Olive stories.
You love them.
That makes me smile too.

Your laughter,
still bright, still certain,
makes the forgetting bearable.

So I call.
And I will keep calling.

Written for Susan's prompt "A Weekend With Friends" at What's Going On?