Self

Self diagnosed eclectic gatherer of things,
holder of the universe in our children,
gardener, writer, only his vixen,
obsessed with radiant placing of all objects,
acceptive of others.

Self inflicted scars from years past,
sleepiness, size, stress, scrapbooker,
organized chaotic mess,
must balence the weigh, time, work, play,
checkbook, kisses between boy and girl, myself.

Self healing wounds deep within,
corners I can hide things in until able-
to bring them to light and let them scab, new pink skin,
aching muscles I should have excersized yesterday,
the want for another child.

Self satisfying warmth from his body in our bed,
the sound of the pool when you are under, deep water,
Our sons hair brushing my face, our daughters kisses,
sand in my sheets, chocolate, writing, the sun on my skin,
peace within me, growth, serenity.

Art

It is the curve of her hair along the nape.
His shaggy hippy hair
My toes painted
His smile, not the one for other people,
The one I am gifted with.
The curve of his ear,
That freckle

It is the 75 year old pine floors we found,
under the rubble
A tree, with prayers lifted
Light in all sorts of ways
It is a rock

It is the growth of moss
The pattern of ivy
The shore spread out for miles
Seashells of nearly every sort
Every first and last sun and moon of every day,
From the beginning to the end

It displays itself in words and in paint
In me
I am mearly a grateful vessel
Holding
Until prompted to pour