​Published with Impsipred Literary Magazine January 2020

I Am a Bridge
Published with Impsipred Literary Magazine January 2020
poetry
​
I am a boulder in a stream that winds wild
a ford in a river that rushes cold
unyielding to outsiders.
I’ll hold your place while you wade the shallows
navigate the waters that test you
without a compass.

I am a walking stick of petrified wood
smooth and stony, worn shiny
where you have placed your hand
again and again and again
leaning heavily, rising tall
then grasping hold to stave off the fall.

I am a path walker by your side
a preserver of footsteps
waiting to be mapped
rather than buried under or brushed aside
for my own way
for my own journey.

I am a noticer of moments,
feeling the flickering of your eyes fatigued and worn
the wiping of a palm along the cheek of your frustrated face
the hunching of your young shoulders
the shifting of your tone ever so subtly wavering, wobbling
that screams to me louder than any spoken words.

I am a blanket for warmth
light or heavy, to be spread or folded for later
rather than a chilly vessel empty
telling you to cover yourself
to calm yourself alone
to be like me, to think like me.

I am a listener for your message
a page turner for your story
a searcher for your truth
that may take a lifetime to reveal itself
to define itself, to circle back
and understand itself.

I am a gatherer,
scouting for signs, marking the trail, improving the shelter,
for incoming storms
that pace the horizon
lurching forth hoping to lay waste to you
seeking to slow you, longing to separate you from the group.

I am a sentry
armed with patience
that won’t give way
or fail you while you venture forth,
stumbling, bounding away
mistaking going for knowing, bringing back ideas
and tales of that which is other than me.

I am a pillow for your head
beckoning you home
when staying seems wrong but going is dangerous
because I was mothered
held by women selfless
shown with actions by souls not fragile.
Nurtured not rejected  through conflict,
I was pulled when pushing was futile,
led out the other side with my heart intact,
under the spell of devotion
to raising me
rather than being offended by my mistakes.
Not fatally annoyed by my missteps
not inconvenienced by my childish needs,
my women did not fall forgetful
that to mother me from birth to death was to face me every day
to be my glue when I was undone
and to release me when I was free enough to go.

​I am a bridge
from my mother
to you
my sons
where only love
can pass.