In Our Fifties

Our chartreuse-colored love

The ugly chair now, that we don’t wish to sit in or admit brought comfort, respite

Nor will we throw it away

We mourn it in the kitchen like a death
Seemingly forever, while surrounded with casseroles of comfort food brought to us by well-meaning “friends”

We watch it as an epic film of someone else’s life
Sitting in the dark, screaming at the screen, warning of their err, fall from grace, then trauma

We escape it with our wanderlust-filled travels near and far
Photographing nature, plus wild wildlife who in-turn, chase us as we sleep, pseudo-nightmares that wake us at 3am

We do this
You, there, and me, here

Silk and brocade-covered hardwood frames we were and we are
Camaraderie and adventure that was to have brought us peace
Closure to the aching

What color was it initially, before the fade, we ask ourselves over and over

What we know for certain — it was an heirloom love

Before the spit up and sweaty workaday clothes soiled it
Before the pained animals in us tore it to shreds
Before our childhood loneliness, unresolved, relegated us to our corners in our fifties — upper lips bloodied, both of us

Walking attachment disorders, detached by default, from each other
All in one, single day

Eventually, we go to the curb with this shredded chartreuse thing

Pack up and move far away

Looking from the rear-view mirror at what was, we draw others’ ire as we drive too-slow down that road

It is always dusty Summer in our hearts’ mind’s eye

Wild Erased

Just settle down
Tell it to your manic
Who used to threaten the world
If it harmed a hair on my head?

Just go gently
Take your wild, man
Ever contemplate the green
Would snuff it out for settled-down love?

Reveal

My mild eyes belie my heart

My tempest touch its tell

Make no mistake I am uncaged

My past meekness is felled

Should you succeed to know my mind

Prepare to meet your match

Taste wild you cannot control

Breathe air you cannot catch

A Wild Meander

I don’t want to hear the morn’ coming in; stay at bay.

At my pace, I’ll share my fruit with the wild; bid good day.

When the sun seems warm enough, out I’ll go; come what may.

Truth is, creatures know I can’t resist them; so I stray.

Kind, Wild, Friend

“August 25th,” she said and thought breathlessly, searching for wisdom and a pen. “I have called you friends.” Joy…surrender…eyes on Him. Yes, all wise mortar for new Life. 

Onto love. It doesn’t matter the date, love “Is.” Daily. Lasts only a moment, but exists in each moment. Thanks, god. Her method today: seek it upside down and backward. Flip with eyes closed through its intentionally silky pages and choose the one just after the most proud. Turn it up-side-up and look to your right. There he is. Talking about wild again. Blurred, inked wild. Yes, this is only love. 

Truth?  She knows so. Here, see youth, invasion, then the dark surrender – but not invasion of the soul, not surrender of the spirit. She takes from today its lesson and gives back the gift of her understanding. Yes, truth demands kindness and compassion nevertheless. 

He placed a piece of His divine in us all, she’s relieved to learn. “I have called you friends….”