Salt

Worry evaporates like rain from sand
in the warm wind.

Granules of self begin to
reconstruct into a solid shape;
Suddenly I have toes
and a torso,
ears, and a nose.

The sound of the ocean transmutes
the agony of self-analysis.
It turns remnants of fear into salt,
the life-giving brine that birthed the world.

I picture my grandmother squeezing a pinch of that salt
from a tiny porcelain dish on her kitchen counter
and flicking it over her left shoulder,
asking god for protection.

The crystals hover in mid-air,
glinting in the morning light
before tumbling joyously onto the tile floor.

That which ails us
also cures us.

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The Falcon

Does the falcon
see me
whirring by
beneath its great talons?

Would it have any way of knowing
I see it
every morning
like a spirit guardian,
like a guide from some other world?

Perhaps the falcon represents some entity
I have yet to know –
or nothing meaningful at all.
Still,
I’d rather it be her

(the one we lost)

keeping a watchful gaze
as I drive to work
beneath the gooseneck lamp post,
urging me onward

deeper still
into the forest
of my waiting dreams.

Saying:
don’t forget the wild;
don’t forget who you are.

 Photo credit: Pixabay.com


Photo credit: Pixabay.com