I have lived my life as a kite on a string —

My husband an anchor, his

stable hands holding me for so long —

My children an anchor, their

tiny hands pulling me back to them for so long– 

I have lived my life as a kite on a string —

adrift in the clouds on the breath of the wind,

careening toward storms of a blistering sun,

twisting and writhing toward a hard ground.

Battered and burned and tattered and torn —

Never understanding — Freedom.

I have lived my life as a kite on a string —

but I was a winged bird on the horizon,

no string of safety anchoring me —

only branches where I would land

to rest, laugh, cry, and play for a time

before taking flight again into home.

(I feel you) speaking into me

even though we are not talking

(as if we have) already merged

with the silver liquid shimmering ocean

cresting and lapping happily at our toes.

(I feel you) speaking into me

but your voice is not as I remembered it

from the party (all those years ago).

(I listen to you) I listen to you

in repeat and refrain of rushing water

vibrant sky deep-drawn mirrored depths.

It is the rolling vibrato shimmer of tremble

and that last long fluttered look

that shakes me (as I feel you)

speaking into me.

An artist must have her Muse.

My words must paint you

near me.

We are intended to share

Communion.

Do you know this too —

in the part of you that hears

my voice?

Breaking whisper in waves —

we are already having

A conversation

in another rippling realm

where God is dreaming.

We met before

mere mortals

in long ago years

wearing other faces . . .

Will you stand near me,

toes crunched into sand,

as twilight escapes from blue night?

Stand — Still — At the space of breathing.

Be my Muse until God wakes,

the ocean rocks and shifts,

light breaks into a fresh morning.

Then — We can — Return

to the white hushed silence.

After the joining

I will lay my brushes down

and put the painting pen away.

But, first, valiant Muse

I desire communion.