Moon Path

Could I follow, Lady Journey?
Could I follow where you go?
Could I jot down all the wonders that I know you're going to show?

Could I watch, Lady Wander?
I wonder wither where you roam.
I'd map your movements, map your footsteps like the wrinkles on my palm.

Could I whisper, Lady Listen?
Tell me, how would you respond?
Would my words come back as echoes like shouts across a pond?

Could I rest now, Lady Weary?
Could I slumber by your side?
I could sleep beneath the stars and have all the time to bide.


Once upon a time there was a wanderer. A mourner. A moonbeam dancer.
Such a delicate flower, some said. Fairer than most, they proclaimed. But was this fair flower as lovely in death? 
Was the willow form maiden pleasant to look at after the accident? 
Ghosts rarely are. It's not their way. To be a ghost is to be a monster. But a quiet one, a insubstantial fear, a cold breath and nothing more.
Ann Lyn Matter was not a pretty ghost. Ann Lyn Matter did not deal with the accident well. But the dead rarely deal with their own passing well. 
Ann had been a beauty, a flower, the kind of women you can't help but stare at. She had been clever and charming and was on her way to becoming a bride.
And now she was dead.
It had happened on the eve of her wedding night. As most tragedies do. What better time for a misfortune to come than one the brink of ones happiness? 
Her fiance had come for tea and after the meal they had gone walking in the garden. In a sheltered nook, surrounded by lilac bushes and dying elder trees, they had sat down for a bit. If pressed, Ann could recollect the exact texture of her fiance's coat, the feel of velvet and linen on her cheek.
A well. In the middle of the garden. It had been out of service for years but Ann suddenly craved the taste of fresh water.
A lean. Ann had leaned over the rough stone lip of the well, too far it seemed. As her hand touched the worn bucket rope, her fiance's had reached out to steady her. 
Water. Ann would never need water again. She still remembers the feeling of flight, downward flight. Of wet clothing pulling her deeper into the well's depths. How her betrothed turned away as soon as she'd lost her balance.
Ann had not planned to be a ghost. Not like that. To this day she still torments over the moment of falling, did her husband-to-be push or steady? 
No one will know.
And now Ann is a moon beam dancer. A twilight guest. Her wandering path is littered with ripped lilac buds. She waits for him.


Could I watch, Lady Wander?

Age

I am old past reckoning

I am tree rings, countless

I am the broken spine on a book that has had many past readings

I am wrinkled and I am frail, fingers sore from thousands of handshakes, millions of embraces, dozens of piano played notes.

I am 89

I am 32485 days long

My cast shadow droops and drags behind me, as tired as I. Weary of shading the ground I walk.

I have been wife, mother, maid, ruler of the roost, comforter, past my prime, sore, weary, temper driven, emotionally drained.

 I hold earth worms on the tops of my hands, blue- fat- age extenuated. Years before I would pull them out of the ground, dirt under my fingernails.

I forget and yet I remember all my past mistakes, all my short answers, my moments of regret.

I am tired and ready

I am a force of nature ready to wind down

Burrow into the ground

Sleep with the rest of my generation

I am old past reckoning, your reckoning  

You cannot remember the old times, vintage times, the good old days

And now my good days are old

I am old past reckoning, but I still smolder

Underneath the wrinkles, underneath the worm veins, the speckled skin, the droops, I still burn. My deepest parts hold a flickering match; I hold my breath because the slightest waver will snuff it out.

To you, young skin, fresh joints, light laugh, I look like a bag of bones. I look overworked, prone to snap, weak.

But if my memories were a wall and my experiences were a moat, you could never touch me. Never climb the wall of Aunt’s faces, Uncle’s funerals, thousands of shopping carts, grandchildren’s first smiles, millions of steps.

But sit down by me, hold my worm hands, maybe I will tell you what ‘past reckoning’ feels like.

The Texture of Words

Today, like most days, I sat on my verbiage till it behaved and sank into my word doc. I have to do this or else they'll up and run off. Little scamps.

Writing has been queer as of late. Like I'm watching myself write, out of body. And most of the time I scream suggestions and orders that my robot body ignores. Hello back space key.

But what I have written has been toothsome, crunchy. Like a toast piece spread with ink. I'm not entirely convinced that it's a good thing.


Chipotle with Faith.We hummed. We pulled back and forth on our plot strings until they aligned and behaved themselves.
Faith has a mind that would make a film producer drool. Cracking Box Office records kind of mind. Her worlds are like an inside out diamond. Equally as beautiful but in a way that makes you sit up and take a second look.

I love textured writing. I love writing you can listen to and I love the color haze they leave behind in your mind. Green and wet and growing as it roots into your memories and surfaces whenever you see their creator.

I have a little girl. Such a face. Such a fearsome little face. Human but with a personality that would be better suited to tiny fangs and stomping hooves and tendrils of heat flickering out of her ears. She does not write easy. No sir. I type sweet and she changes sour. I insist here and she reaches through the screen and hammers N O T   L I K E L Y.  So like most of my writing I end up going their way. Such is the temperament of words.