The Poetry Marathon

my everything, my home

from the driveway to the kitchen

to the den and to the garden

this is where I want to be

and where I feel “home”

love pimento cheese

Seriously Sharp cheddar

my secret weapon

stomach tied in knots

tender neck and tight shoulders

yet I persevere

I am wonderfully and perfectly made to carry joy

the kind of joy that old women, tired of drudgery, cry for

and old men have forgotten exists

the kind of joy that only children seem to possess

yet I too contain the flickering flame of joy

that dances anew and threatens to drown out the staunchest objection

laid down to ensnare hope by the most furtive joy-sucker

I give thanks for this joy that is embedded in my DNA

so that everything I touch sparkles a little more

and I leave little breadcrumbs of joy to power-charge those who suffer

from perpetual doldrums

Particularly in the summer, I love to noctambulate

Seems that all of creation, both God’s and man’s, are pulling us outdoors

Blame it on the stars, the moon, the city lights

or blame no one but ourselves

for being attracted to the shiny parts

interspersed among the long shadows

I had a tendency to over-schedule, over-engage, over-commit

but that was before, when I had a husband

Home is cathartic now and I don’t have to escape

the green shady garden, the herbs and waterfall

my kitchen – all mine – where I can create what I want

I can sing, whistle, dance

and nobody blares televangelists

over my joy

just be still, and listen

Spirit reminded me

I repeated the words softly

until forty years later

I am still, and listening

the unfurling leaves

astonish me every time

I enter the gate

He cannot hear right

but he puts all his effort

in understanding both worlds

Maybe all regrets start out the same

When there was a fork in the road I chose the wrong one

I was too cavalier with my options

not realizing that as time marched on my options would greatly diminish

and I would look back and wish

I had taken the other road and chosen you