a way in the wilderness

1. rain in forecast; homesick, hopesick
2. when the sky falls, i hope you catch it
3. little faith
4. listen, listen little one
5.

rain in forecast; homesick, hopesick

sometimes it feels like all i ever will be is wandering.

home-sick; every post-card promises
"see you soon" as more of a mantra i must repeat,
than a promise i think i can keep.

i am sea-sick with grief, (this is part of my wandering)
but every morning i wake up
to oars being carved out of all my dreams,
i try to tell my body we don't know how to swim
anymore.

my phone tells me it's 12 degrees warmer there,
and the rain is coming in heavy,
and i wonder if i can become a fish, if enough
desire could make me become jonah-running,
or if i have become odysseus-tied-to-a-boat
sinking to escape the sirens i can't reach.

God says He is cutting the river clean in half,
making highways through valleys, and
laying a stream where i am parched,
but i have spent 40 days, and 40 nights, and
40 days again and again and again asking for rain
and measuring the distance between my thirst and (His silence).

but i am too desperate not to believe;
so i fill in the space, and listen to the still small voice,
so i wander parallel to the river,
and tell my mom to have dinner ready,
and let my hope drown (for a little while),
so i can tread water.

when the sky falls, i hope you catch it

my aunts found a quilt my grandmother had started;
crisp blue stars making galaxies that never were completed
now stardust and vintage fabric pooling in my mother's hands
she thinks she might undo some of the seams,
and re-arrange it into something new, though
it feels violently irreverent to unsew, her sisters
tell her it's okay to fold the stars into rivers instead;
and isn't this how time works anyways,
the sky is sometimes ripped clean in half,
but she always finds her way home,
the frayed edges work their way into love,
and we never truly complete what we started,
you just pray your daughters picks up
where you left off, and leave the soup on warm,
and the door cracked open,
and whisper your prayer in ellipses,
and hope it keeps them warm

little faith

sometimes
the only place you can sleep
is under a broom-tree because
at least here, i know the names
of all the dead / weeds and here
i don't get my hopes up
for fig trees, or honey hives,
or something sweeter
than this bitter land.

sometimes
resurrection feels like
an earthquake tearing my limbs
hope from heart, dream from life,
ripping stitched-up seams
for a sprout / to fracture
hardened rock.

sometimes
grace is terrifying
rushing into ground i have drank-dry;
drowned in flood waters,
and told this broken raft
is ark / enough
to carry me.

sometimes
i fear that i would rather stay asleep
then listen to Him call "rise up"
but my hand cups around dew to drink
as the stone is cut open,
and i follow the footsteps
over Galilee-sea-water,
and tell Him "i'm weary," /
but i will follow.

@AlexWrites -

Spoiler

Thank you for the incredibly thoughtful comments and the poetry shout-out too! My mom really did just get a quilt from my aunts, so it was on my mind. I love the poetry of unfinished things that are passed on through generations... it's very poetic to me! <3

Glad you caught some of those repeat themes too! Definitely some of my fave images!

The ending stanza hooked me with its resonating hypocrisy. The narrator is lost and yet asks her family to wait for her at home, though she's not found what it really means to her.

She will make it home eventually though! So it's not complete hypocrisy, it's faith!

Thank you again so much for the encouragement and for stopping by! I appreciate it so much!

@Meshugenah - genius! <3 I may need to re-write to highlight that double meaning a little more, because that would fit in so nicely with the ancestry-poems too. @Hannah - thank you! <3 I am in love with Mesh's cut too!

cw: death

listen, listen little one

when I was little / sometimes I imagined my grandmother's voice coaching me from the grave / reminding me when to stir, and when to plant, and how much love a person ought to keep in her pockets for herself at all times / I let her speak through my mother, and let her speak through me, / I let her voice echo big and wide and longer than life can contain.

I still let her love me when I need it, / because there's no way the river ends when it's dried, the land is carved all the way through, / there's no way the tree dies when its trunk is cut, the earth holds her roots for at least a thousand generations, / there's no way the birds forget us when they go north, the sky has too many stories to whisper as they sing in chorus / and life has a way of remaining big and wide and longer than death can contain.

sometimes now, / I let myself mother you too / tenderly, quietly, brokenly, wholly, loudly, constantly / I tell the birds your name, and dip your toes in the river as my hands go underneath, I tell the trees to greet you, and plant your memory in my garden with the tomatoes, and hostas, and rose-bushes, / I tell the soil to keep you warm / I tell you, you are loved, so loved, and remind you to come home soon, / I let my love echo big and wide and more than this little life can ever contain.