I just typed this out, but It got eaten, basically, I wrote a non-poem. Here:
--
She picked up the pen, looked up at the sky, and smiled.
What gifts we are given, and never appreciate.
The sound of music moving through leaves of trees.
The feel of thick paper under drawing hands.
The sound of a loved one smiling.
The bubbling laugh of hopefulness.
The slap of small wet feet on pavement.
The squelching of mud between toes.
The knowledge that your ancestors stretch beyond the length of light-years.
The shining sight of the earth’s own galaxy, a million lights spread across the ground - your home town, wreathed in night, beckoning you after a long night-flight.
The taste of water after long thirst.
The smell of your mother’s cooking in the first year of being away from home.
Catching a whiff of dying seaweed while walking in a harbour-side town.
Watching a new generation being born, when you still thought you were the kid.
Knowing they will grow up thinking of you as Aunt, or Uncle, or Mother, or Father when you have no idea how to live up to those titles.
Touching a dead bird’s wing with sorrow and a little bit of fear.
Suddenly realising that there is sky above you, and you had forgotten to look at it for so long, but it stayed to wait for you.
Knowing that God will wait till your tantrums pass, and still watch over you in the night.
Knowing that you are not the center of the universe.
Looking at something that came from you, that you created, and knowing that there is nothing in life, that can really compare to this feeling.
Knowing that there is hope. Somewhere, indescribable, irreplaceable, undefinable, but there, forever, and nothing can change that,
ever.
--
there. nice, now I have to go cook dinner.
copyright Page Russet, 2005