Our Rich Tapestry

It occurs to me

In bed

with love and books and paper and pen

One Sunday morning,  reading random

common experiences about

the joys of motherhood that

One memory tags another to

            weave life’s rich tapestry.

When you share a memory

with me, our fabrics become

Stitched together in

Our common patchwork quilt,

keeping us warm in our downy creation.

May ours be beautiful stitch work.

Quilts turn to dust in tucked away cobweb trunks.

The handworks of our ancestors are

tattered and unsavable, time unweaving their existence.

Now, Our binary cacophony sings louder to faraway places

with a million ears.

Who knows how long our words will last?

And how many cloths our cloths overlap?

You, hearing my words,

You matter to me.

You matter. 

May ours be beautiful stitch work.

Fog on Redwoods

Heaven’s white fingertips brush his

lover’s hilly body as she lies

greenly waiting.

Here is the voyeur gasping as their

tangling carries them back to the

Source

Scentery

I need a change of scentery;

Evergreen breezes singing soft lulling nothings to my nose.

Smoky campfire wafting tinfoil dinner and smore bedtime stories

Lily pad lakes filled with rainbows of trout snacking on mosquito bites

An afternoon of scent recognition skills in tourist laden shops offering every candle

 imaginable and some not.

River water tumbling over mossy rock and sand

Horses in sweat-soaked leather waiting to carry me out and back

Lavender and sandalwood kneaded into the softening dough of my skin and brain, surrendering on the table, spent, post rocky trail hike

Moonlit scent hot tub in a starry twinkle safe envelope

Rose blossom bliss on a sun-warmed early morn

 Hammock cradle in cottonwood shade telling stories from years gone by

Hot inner tube scorch mixed with river splash ice cool

Omelets and orange juice and room service for two in the early afternoon

Fresh olfactory essence filling me renewed

Teacher

The city stands before her cloud colored chalkboard

her Transamerica building-shaped pointer

ready to emphasize her thoughts above the din

noise of her unruly class of wriggling metal children

Her students will never come to attention

Apple Jacks

He leaned in like a young brother

Quick

Without malice

Confident of what he needed from me

Conveying inability to do for himself what he could use me for;

To rub against my bare arm

Horses push;

Head butting their messages of discontent.

This was different

Hold still, there’s something in my eye

Do you see it?

Let me rub again, be my hands, help me get it out

Can you help me?