she is nothing but a little white-skinned baby,
but she notices things like dark hair, dark eyes,
dark skin and differences
she is afraid of her uncle who is darker, and his son
who is half Korean, and men with beards,
and women who give off airs of bitterness
she knows colorful pretensions well.
she talks to passing cars from her perch at the window sill,
reads newspapers upside down and gets meaning from them,
watches for her melted snowman to reappear
and grieves its loss and non-return
she knows loss, already.
she’d rather feed her dog than have her mother
put spoon to teeth and try to give her nourishment
she badly needs; this skinny, tall almost-two-year-old
who eats crayons and sings songs in hues
of memories of that neutral place
where there is no muddying of colors
she knows being hungry for less and more.
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"she knows loss, already."
As we have often discussed, one cannot really lose what one has already gained. Yes, we mourn our losses with profound sadness & a remembrance of all things beautiful & fine. Yet, our sorrow sometimes diminishes the utter beauty, should it become too deep or last too long. This, I know far too well. 
However...when the tide finally recedes again & the shoreline becomes visible once more, we must acknowledge the depths we have sunk to, in order to rise to the surface, floating, then finally stroking our way back to life, within the currents warmed only by sunlight's Grace.
This poem, this wondrous Scribe, knows these things from the source of whence they came. This writer has lived her words with the utmost elegance, the innate spirit of strength borne from the tests survival demands we take. Whether we pass these tests or not is a testament to the power, the light, we choose to retain within our Selves...earned by knowing just how dark dark can become...& by our choosing to stride out of sorrow, into the light of Love.
Brava, my Sister. You are ever so beautiful, brave & TRUE.
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thank you, Wanda. I have written a few lately that reach deeper into what I am learning.
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perhaps this is autobiographical, perhaps it is metaphysical, perhaps it is simply a beautifully written poetic work full of passages ironic, or dark, or bright as flashing wings of thunderclaps we just miss as they strike a thing that used to be but that we will never see now .. it struck me very deeply, this world, this firmament within us as i read this poem: how our inner lives become irrelevant, sometimes fearful, sometimes like the heart of a bird bravely toying with powerful thermals of hostile but natural inclination ... the format you have used clearly demarcates three separate, independent yet arisen from one another in almost any order of random tragedy or spiritual growth or struggle to simply love: knowing falsehood of shadows, knowing what might create them, having a heart sown knowledge of pre birth and spiritual ascendence ... this earth of ours, from which we come and from which we derive the filtered essence of stars and their remnant, sometimes gossamer, pieces of wings which are so often broken, rutted upon and down into the ground is the voice of things we can become, be they a desolation or a salvation ... but simplicity and knowledge is root of tenderness and the universe may be jealous and may be watchful. so I take heed and each day play my flute so that the ducks in the park that swim in circles may be able to listen to my song of apology and love to them and to the earth and to all the stars, and to my fellow humans. there is a strong racial element in the first stanza which helped the set the tone of this poem in an interesting way, powerfully.
I wax philosophic, but then again, this poem made me think of many things I had put away from time to time .
even, a literal read, which was my actual read here, is completely magical. you imbue the page with a magic and a truth beautiful and true.
Moqui
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I was so humbled that I forgot to add..
"so I take heed and each day play my flute so that the ducks in the park that swim in circles may be able to listen to my song of apology and love to them and to the earth and to all the stars, and to my fellow humans." What a beautiful way to honor all and One. You play flute and I decorate my outside area and inside as well, with singing hoops and gifts I tie on trees and in the way I tend that part of Mother and those who pass by in my sort of prayer of honor and love. -
Yes, it is all of this...how astute to know I meant more, but I do confess, such depths as your kind comments, your in depth time and analysis, humble me. I wish I had such purposes with this poem other than making a few levels of statements on here and there, we as spirit in earthly bodies or visaversa,and the thoughts about at what age we notice such differences and know fear in those, how our spirit hungers like our body when we do not have what is needed or give away what we need more than others, and, finally, how early we may integrate earthly thoughts with spiritual ones and at what time there is a vanishing point. Yes, I meant way more.
I could have bandstanded and spit it out, but what I wished, with this poem, was to give an altar-voice to speak for me. I remember her uncle, my second son who was this baby's age when we were driving past a church that had night lights all around it and him asking, "Mom, Mom, can we stop? Jesus is home!" I had not taught him anything of Jesus. Where did this thought come from in a child of mine? And, more, why was it important to him? There is something innately known methinks. When I questioned him, he believed Jesus was God somehow, so he was connecting in the only way he knew how. But, what was it that made him do so? I had not taught him any of that.
This baby, too, shows us things she was not taught and knows innately and shows those things that she is being conditioned to know.
I have added her picture looking out the screen door where here snowman was but a week ago..that one she remembers, that one who has melted into green grass.
I have also edited a bit, as I am wont to do as I revisit a poem until it feels done.
Thank you so much for these beautiful comments.
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This comment is exquisite, as I knew it would be. Which Carol so richly deserves. Amen.
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Yes, what incredible comments. I have exchanged the art I did for the title and Paisley Jorja's picture and edited a bit again.
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I'm not sure I can pinpoint why, Carol, but this one made me tear up. Maybe it was her depth of perception or some other connection I feel for this beautiful little girl you have characterized. As always, your words touch my heart.
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ty, ten, she truly is a sweet little spirit..so unique..that sometimes she takes my breath away. I added her picture so you might see her seeing. She represents The Child within...the Universal Child, to me.
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