Don’t make Spirit too small
Lest It become hidden amidst books
Dog-eared and dusty high on a shelf
Or as the sun fades
Forgotten against the backdrop of night

Don’t make Spirit too small
One flowered stem of beauty
The magnificence of which is
Absorbed into life’s landscape
Overlooked as the boy’s finger
That holds the dike

Don’t make Spirit too small
Our cares overshadowing
The Omnipotence that breathes
Life into the newborn child
And dreams the magic
Weaving of a snowflake

Don’t make Spirit too small
Like the mud-filled puddle
Which soils our shoe
While the mighty tide pulses our being
Bringing infinite treasure ashore

Don’t make Spirit too small
Like the lone song of woodthrush
Drowned in the chatter of mind
Its sweet morning reverie
One piece of the orchestra
Embraced only by the rising sun

Don’t make Spirit too small
For as you magnify Its essence
You become blinded by Its Brilliance

sweet-smelling
creek waters
seep
into fertile banks
which like a sponge
soak up
the ever-giving flow of days
days filled with leaves
afloat
in whirlpools of light
gurgling voices amidst
rock outcrops
dreams suspended

Grandma’s hair was white
And sparse
Like a thin blanket of new snow
That lay ever so gently
Atop her large forehead

It drew back from her face
Like flakes that
Magically melt away at roof’s edge
And invite you to stand
Beneath the cover
And watch the world drift by

The beauty shop
Made her curls tight and
Tame around her face
When they relaxed - loose and unruly
It became her

She had large framed glasses
That sat comfortably on her
Jagged nose
A wholesome smile
That made you want to
Squeeze her bulging cheeks
And full life-loving laughter

Grandma was built small
But full of strength and spirit
She bedded late
And rose early
And was not a sound sleeper
She liked her coffee dark and tepid
And was fine with leftover – slightly re-warmed
And for breakfast
One egg sunny-side up

She always served me a banquet
A fine selection of tiny cereal boxes
Would stand in a row by an empty bowl
And pitcher of milk
Sides of applesauce and cottage cheese
Were standard fare
And then eggs and sausage
White toast with jelly
And orange juice

In the oak church pew
Her voice was strong and blustery
She carried herself straight and proud
Her wrinkled hands held hymnals low
For me to follow her finger with the notes

We often sat on her porch glider
On hot Sunday afternoons
And ate ice cream sandwiches
Or drank iced coca-cola
And spoke of nothing
But listened to church bells
And ladies heels
Clipping down slate sidewalks

Every January, Grandma started a new journal
The year printed in fancy white numbers
On a brown faux leather cover
She filled pages daily
With black ink and secrets
My grandma never knew
She inspired me to write

I remember our last visit
She in her worn brown-cushion chair
A blanket across her knees
Not as sharp as always
But her smile still true
And comforting

The day I said goodbye
She handed me a 20 dollar bill
That smelled of
The musty safe in her basement
She told me to buy myself a milkshake
We laughed

That bill still resides in my car console
Sealed in a plastic bag to preserve the smell
The last memory I have
Of my grandma
Besides her hair
Laying on a down pillow
Loose and unruly

Barren as my daughter’s cradle
Her quilt still folded neatly
I contemplate my reflection
Eclipsed by kitchen light

As I sift through piles of dishes
And memories of dinner blessings
And holding hands
Hands so small and soft and full of life

I take in my world through timid eyes
Squinting for fear of being seen
Like a child who hides her face
And wonders where you are

I find myself
Hidden in years of mothering,
Still as the doll perched on the dresser
Waiting to be found by those searching

One morning I discover myself
Draped across the sun-dappled sheets
Exposed as the unforgiving colors
Emblazoned on a white canvas

Remote treasure now unearthed
Wild vines spring forth
Boasting tender full berries

Awaiting hands to set them free
Lips to exploit soul’s yearning
Such voluminous flow
Overcomes the page, the portrait

Still life no longer still
I open the bedroom door
Into a new day

Wise one,
Weave your blanket with mine
Firelight dances in your careful eyes
Heart strings in harmony
Sing gratitude for this connection

You, warrior, armed with gentleness
Walking tall in your truth
You breed clarity with your conviction
Love with your wholeness
Peace with your word

Drum beats quicken as I draw close
To that mirror which is you
I breathe deep into your knowing
At peace with the fullness of your gift

I celebrate your creation, you creating
The magic that is you

Midnight thunder growls as the raindrops drum softly outside my window. This storm is for me, coaxing me into the quiet and solitude of the wee hours so that I can be energized by the creative flow that sources me.

I’ve been remiss about gifting myself with writing time and, like a dear old friend, the blank page greets me with open arms.

I’m tempted to boil some tea and stay awhile, but am still wrestling with mind who tells me that tomorrow offers no reprieve from children and errands, appointments and meals.

But tomorrow is only an illusion — this moment is alive, roaring deeply like the storm, lighting up my soul, filling me with indescribable satisfaction.

Owl spirit urged me out of bed again this morning. This one is gentle, but persistent. I walked the road a couple mornings ago, following owl’s call and searching the trees for a chance glimpse. I’m certain I got close, but didn’t see it. No matter; the feeling is strong within me; I’ve accepted its medicine and will continue to follow its lead.