Month: December 2015

The sun did shine on a fixer – upper

Not shiny,
Nor polished,
Not a wax shine,
Nor glistening sun glean,
I knew you would not be perfect.
I sat with my knees bent,
Cradled into my chest,
And asked God if I knew how to love.
Did I really know how to look at a house,
And see that the front yard had tried to grow flowers,
And the paint chipping off the shed
Could be a welcoming place?
I knelt down,
Feeling the blades of grass with my fingers.
My mother comes out and behind her the sun shines,
And the breeze rustles our skirts.
We smile,
And I laugh that I love her when she says nothing at all but looks at me with words in her cheeks.
Tall stalks of corn are ahead, 
And my father plucks an ear of corn,
And waves at me.
His storytelling eyes,
And booming laugh – causes the birds to whistle a low tune.
I think back to what I asked God for.
Did I know how to love?
With my hands around my cup of coffee,
I idle myself with faces of those in my past and question if I was at fault for letting them go.
Was I at fault for not fighting hard enough?
No silver plated mirror,
No bedazzled treasure trove,
No luminescent dream.
My love stringed together my years and sought that I ought not to feel shame for feeling.
My love sat with me,
As I stepped onto the porch of that house and smiled.
In the distance,
I waved at my parents,
I waved at my genuine friends.
And as I tilled my garden,
I thought my love cannot wait…
It will burst out of me:
And free.


Lovers, who question if their love is enough

I pray that one day,
When the nights you lay in bed and wonder if you’re loveable,
You still hold on to that thread of hope that says you are.
I pray that when words feel like deadweight on your heart,
You place both hands over your heart
And extinguish the fires the best way you know how.
Flipping through the pages of your story,
The spine of the book showed signs of being worn.
Like two collaborative artists,
We stitched seams and strengthened binds,
Cross – legged on the floor,
We hunched over and added what was scrawled in the margins –
To be included in the actual chapters.
I too,
Gave the night my exasperations.
I too,
Mouthed silent prayers that to love and to never spill – never topple over
Hurt more than anything else.
I pray the nights,
You cover your face with both hands and silently scream that your love is not enough,
You continue to not run away from love.
I am waiting for you.
I am waiting for the bashfulness,
The sheepish smiles,
The plagues of uncertainty about your life.
And when you feel as if your light does not shine bright enough –
I hope you see that some of us do not want the whole sun,
But the streams of it gleaning through the leaves of the trees.
One day you’ll find that you are a lot like what you want in your life – brave.
It’s a bravery that climbs mountains during the day, and rests in the valleys at night.
One day you’ll cross bridges made out of driftwood,
carrying the book about yourself and finding it’s okay to tell the story of your journey.
I pray that one day we sit close enough,
Where our knees touch and over tea –
We will talk about what made us brave,
And hope.
In the plastic upholstered seats that stick to the back of our thighs,
We will give what we feel was not good enough to give,
But it is.
Your love is enough.
I pray one day you’ll witness that it paddles alongside of you every step of the way.