A Tribute to You
The day we
packed up the kids
and our lunches and our tie-dyed eggs
and drove through you,
was the day small things started to change.
As we entered your sacred space,
you embraced us, and whispered that we were safe.
My heart raced, and then slowed,
switching between fierce ebbs and
apprehensive flows.
Your aroma is permanently
carved in my heart, and I can still smell
the shawl of acceptance you wrapped around
me, knowing how hard
I was trying to
breathe while my children played among
the Joshua Trees.
My bones thank you.
It was there under the Cirrus clouds
that I lay down on you,
and became
simply
a woman in love
with a man.
I don't know how, but you knew
that I hadn't
really let him inside for at least
half a decade.
I needed to be among the rocks,
and the curves of you to begin again
to speak
a language so long ignored
it was gathering cobwebs and dusted specks.
We, in our own traps, were stuck.
That day, we stopped spinning and
surrendered
to being tangled up in you
and
your soothing, mud-less breeze
of fault lines and ego dreams,
and we let go.
We trusted that you'd bring us home
That was eight months ago,
and to this day,
we are still closing our eyes,
and pinching our skin
with appreciation,
ever so gently,
always gently.
