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.

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