Looking for a Space that Fits Me

11-4-08

I'm looking for a gentler place

A space that fits my size;

Where lights nor words nor music race

where there's space for thoughts more wise.

I search for study settings

with a few chairs placed in rounds,

offset the main bustling

where students make their bounds.

I seek places to share with children

who walk and point their simple way.

And I'm going straight to places

where grownups tend to stay.

I like walking close to buildings

and small tree-sheltered squares

With small organic wild things

and misty wind inside my hair.

I'm discontent with fields of dark

and avenues too wide

for they're too great of spaces

where what's united can divide.

I'm wondering about doorways,

If more of them were my height

or maybe short enough to duck

lest bump my head I might.

I've got a silent fondness

for the way my blanket wraps

me swathed in chills and skitters

then calms with heat it traps.

For the halls I walk are vast.

Halogen constant overhead;

these add weight to all my baggage

and make me long for spot to shed.

Theses people do not notice

how their words echo in my ears

doubling the noise they make

which needless, stays still near.

I often run upon my toes,

teeny landings of little leaps

and I like to wear slippers

so there's no crash or creaks.

I want a place with yellow light!

With orange and reds and browns!

where smiles can't help replace

mouth's corners from the frown.

And where are you my dear one?

My steady flow of hugs?

Who scoops the world around me

and cozies me in it as would a jug?

I can wake up tomorrow

and go through this turn again

By grace I'll not mundane it

But how changed will I be when !...

I will see you oft and oft

with yellow sunlight out and in,

with your hand, a space that fits me,

walking with me in the wind!

And in your eyes meet mine

they are brown and cheeks are pink

and orange glows my inspiration

too magnificent to keep.

How the Wind Whisks the World the Day before the Rain

10-17-08

Wind in a hurry is tearing leaves at their stems

from their father branches.

“Rain is coming!” the wind says

Scaring my hair in swirls,

whisking yellow ellipses into Formidable Pillars

in the center of walkways and corners.

Crunching things scramble betwixt my ankles

as I step into the breezeway.

rain drops can't fall Straight.

They are thrown against my nose and forehead.

the sky is Wary.

students shut themselves in barracks of jacket hoods and gloves.

The Tan Sidewalk is Brown with tight Wet puddles

I walk quickly but my mind is pausing to take note -

the world is messaging me

touching all my senses.

My neck arches back and my head turns in a wide circle around the square.

The others walking and talking by, umbrellas shielding the sky;

pants brushing and mouths breathing, cheeks paling and pinking.

My hair whips up and then blows behind me, a little awe has been struck.

The leaves are being tugged; a whole tree of leaves all in the same direction, diagonally to the ground.

My lovely square which I look to to assess the state and mood of campus

I had looked

lovingly at the small yellow leaves before leaving on Friday.

And today,

All In One Weekend,

they are stripped. Gone. I missed them.

Will I be inside when it rains?

Or outside with it crashing on me?

I think I shouldn't mind either. I've been in the library with the wind

whistling through the window cracks while I sat cozy

in a turtle neck sweater to read and write.

And not long ago, but a few days,

it seems longer,

I was striding at someone's side.

We were talking in the rain. Heavy hair on our crowns and

drops ever replacing themselves streaming off our nose tips,

gliding over our eyebrows, eyelashes, and dipping into our smiles.

He had a sweater and I had a scarf.

We both had bags and we neither had hats.

My Car

9-13-08

My car is the kind of car with bird

poop streaked down its tinted windows because I like to park under the Trees.

My car is the kind that vibrates with chatter and laughter, stories, and

all different beats chosen by whomever's personality is in the passenger's seat

and then pulsing out the small speakers

Other times, my car's leather passenger seat cradles hunks of brown clay

and half-way constructed ceramic pieces

wrapped in clear plastic bags

to keep in the moisture.

Sometimes my car's passenger seat props up a large oil painting

and allows itself to be marked with blue and orange

from the straight edges of canvas.

My car is the kind of car that forms to the curve of the road

and on whose side doors streak reflections

of yellow fields, green crops, bumpy orchards,

and the camel-like humps of small bluish-purple trees.

My sun roof is the kind that is often open,

That is likely to have more than one hand thrust out it into the air

from as far back as the middle seats.

My car is the kind of car whose cup holders

have held countless water bottle of all brands,

various mugs of morning tea,

Swiss chocolate milk,

and now a cold mini jug of apple cider.

My car's back window

and rear view mirror have seen

many a tailing car changes lanes to quickly pass me.

My car is the kind of car whose middle seats lean back far to support

the weary bodies and minds of 16-year-old boys;

and whose long back seat has offered

one college girl a place to rest in privacy for a nap

within a crowded campus parking lot.

My car is the kind of car that rolls with optimism and

adapts itself to each mood

of its riders;

the kind of car that is used, appreciated, and whose driver

lets her foot off the gas whenever my car can coast.

8-28-08

The day you left, Fall came

it's trying to come slowly,

to break it to me gently

turning color at the tips of middle branches

I see you yellow leaves.

You orange flames crinkling off Summer's green.

I welcome you,

I recall my fondness for your unique flare

and I am also afraid of you.

Layers of small oval leaves

clump in the corner of road and grass

too fresh off the tree and still

soaked with life to be startled

when I drive by

We're hoping then?

We're trying then?

When in solitude and reflection

we force our optimism and perseverance.

But when actually living our

days with people, the joy comes

so naturally

“So kiss me and smile for me,

tell me that you'll wait for me...”

It'd be nice if I could get my schedule sorted.

It'd be nice if you'd talk.

It'd be nice if we knew what each other was thinking.

It'd be nice if my visits go well.

If I could give God instead of get compliments.

It'd be nice if I wasn't so shallow.

Motorcycle Ride 7/14/08

I felt the air on my shins

from Halifax to Harrisburg.

All the air that was there

from Halifax to Harrisburg

has touched me.

Pockets of warm and cool

night. I like the warm.

Whistling up the knees of my capris

and billowing through the neck

of my jean jacket

jostling it against my collar.

It is too dark to see my eyes

in Dad's helmet;

but dark enough to push out

all the house lights in

windows in the forest

White moon ungrounded

Sliding Slipping Rising Soaring

from the surroundings.

Yellow arrow signs

down hill.

A car behind us

uphill

its little headlights shine

in the corner tip of our side mirror.

It doesn't glare, doesn't blind,

but rather splits into

Four Spinning Rays

and looks more like a sparkle outside a

car wash.

Moon silver river

a star, like a child

hiding behind its mountain parent

Rocks in the river

strips of Dark Bumpy

chopping up the

vertical streaks

of street lights and

traffic stops on the next shore

Dad quietly yells back to

me “Are you comfortable?” I

can hear his smile.

A dangerous move for a

small act of love.

The valley cupped a

pool of rainbow sky

in its meadow hand

and I sleep while the sun