What is this place that one returns to?

for some, possible, easy even

to put aside a person, shelve them with other memories

like a box of postcards growing yellow

whilst I was always the girl who climbing on top of boxes

found the postcards and brought them down

splayed like restless tarot on my lap

try to fathom, walk back into time

absent people, love letters sent to

girlfriends now married, unrecognizable

childish handwriting, burst of emotion scored in yesterday’s colors

I have always liked stories and wanted

to read the secret histories of those

who would not share them with me

so your letters I had to put

in a green river one by one

for fear if they were not wet and destroyed

I’d read over and over til you came back to life

finding myself

running lonely highway to your home

knocking on your still familiar…

“We are all just walking each other home.”
― Ram Dass

In the nuance
of evening,
collect your thoughts,
in gentleness
and compassion,
stay the course…

In kindness to yourself
and each
living being,
no negativity
should darken
inspired ways of seeing…

And soak
up nature,
feel the earth
beneath your feet,
taste the sweet ambrosia
of merciful beats…

Sing out of tune
when nobody’s home,
let your mind
wander
and your body roam.

Forgive quickly
when offended
by some,
guard against hatred,
and in love
become…..
a transcended being
filled with light,
unafraid
of darkness
or the foreboding
of night…

Awaken in the mornings
knowing you survived,
perhaps undone
by suffering,
but fully alive…