April 30: Erudition

Since it’s the last day of April, I’m going to close national poetry month with this. I’m always thankful for lessons learned.

it’s late afternoon already
and still you haven’t come
from my window I’ve been watching

children casting lines into the river
consistently losing their bait with the
eagerness of reeling in nothing

interesting how early we can learn
life’s great truths
yet they do not realized this is homework
and so continue on
while I keep my vigil

the clouds fall into the water and a grayishness
settles over the once idyllic scene
the fog is coming in
on something heavier than little cat feet
I can hear its pouncing steps echo
in the distance

there will be a storm tonight

moonlight would cast a rosier glow
over the swirling water than
the sun’s weak attempts right now
the wind blows the lines back
and forth and I wait expectantly

for the children to run home
but they continue to cast and reel
cast and reel
hoping to get even one small bite
and I wonder why they can’t see
it’s pointless now the fish are gone

and then I do

I’ve done my homework
I’m not one of them
I’m leaving

April 15: Meiosis

April is national poetry month. Yay! If you follow this blog, you know I like writing poetry. Unfortunately, a lot of my writing is a bit heavy or dark, seeing as how I use it as an emotional release. I’m back to feeling a bit more upbeat, so I found one for today that I wrote about my oldest, when she was still small. She’s an adult now, and I recognize how true these sentiments are. Watching children grow up is both an amazing and bittersweet joy, knowing that one day they will leave. Still, it’s something I’m thankful for every day.

And so it began, not with a bang
but a sigh and a groan from the
heaviness of love. Unprepared and

frightened we were by our creation
for intermittent cries in the night hung
sluggish in the morning

while dull eyes filled with the rays on
the bed. For months, day and night
had no pattern except for the constant

growth of love. Until, finally,
comfort overtook confusion.
Maturity blossomed with the first

fever and swelled with excited cries.
Yes, she’s ours,
Yes, she’s mine.

Dazed with pride we no longer felt
the heaviness–numb to the first fear
of ownership we watched our creation

grow, belying the years with her speed,
a shiny foil to our stagnant selves.
Nostalgia infused the hours of being a

spectator to a miracle with dim reminders
that one day we will not be enough;
our love will snap like a taut rubber

band and leave us dangling apart.