12 Minutes
The weight of her past encumbers her goals.
Time moves on and moves slow.
The magnitude of the moment is now difficult to grasp.
Tracing her way back down a rooted path,
stumbling, losing her balance,
and falling down an abyss
lined with images of people, deeds, and mistrust.
Continuing to fall back to the needle's point
where the tear began,
ripped wide with fear,
left with frayed edges that shattered her innocence.
"They're just children, you say.
Lack of guidance, an excuse
"Do no evil," forgotten
Torn apart again and again.
Now there are shreds of a girl
who turns inward and grows small.
The weaver, now in her fifties,
after the moon, hears God's request
to go back and find the moment
when she lost her true self.
The moment that fractured a most tender heart,
the kindest of beings, an easy smile and laugh.
She was poked and prodded
to the point of giving up her morals.
The day opened the darkest door
to a self-deprecating path.
At this age, she has come to the realization
that it was an act of violation and not her fault.
Grief came over her because she shaped her
existence around that one traumatic assault.
The needle, now rusted
with lack of use and poor storage,
will now attempt to weave back
the worn blanket of her life
and mend a heart lost in embarrassment.
However, there is still time.
There is grace in the acts of years lost,
the growth of a soul that values
forgiveness and love,
and a need to move on and
learn from the guidance above.
To cherish that there is a reason
to preserve the child that was lost
for her young and their children to come.
So, she reclaims her luminosity, her wonder, and joy
by creating beauty, sharing wisdom,
and growing with her children, that teach her more.
She is molding new dreams,
knowing the edges will never be smooth again,
but the jagged thoughts have softened
and her world is expanding within.
There are many more years and
the light in her eyes is still bright,
knowing she deserves a great love
while dancing with the shadows of distant moonlight
and searching for a future that appreciates
a beautiful kind heart.
By Daria Pardue
In Response to a Smirk
At the edge of the world is a rich pink sky
speckled with dust, an occasional feather
and drifting black insects
Messengers of annoyance and fear.
The vastness mocks our smallish thoughts
and encourages us to jump into the abyss
or a possibility.
Only the jumper can make their intention known.
Only the jumper can believe in the electricity of the open air.
Not jumping, one stays teetering on the edge a
mass of indecision.
Dendrites fire off and argue with synapses.
A brain at odds with the heart.
The body morphs into a stump holding up a never-ending seesaw
of a warring heart and a dream-crushing brain.
Or maybe the edge is too far off,
the mudslides are too slick and convincing
that drudgery beats the shit out of both the brain and the heart
and even the soul loses its way.
The pressure of the edge of the world closes in
squeezing from the inside out.
The ideas are sweat on the skin for a feather to float by and swipe them up.
It floats into the universe and waits for the bravery of a decision.
It is stolen. Gone.
The feather catches an updraft, the feather dances,
the insects have a ho-down on the feather.
And the jumper slips!
The insects laugh, they whisper, they conjure.
They think the jumper will never believe the heart.
But one day, the jumper will smash all the insects
And use the floating feather to mop up their broken pieces
and stir them into the mud and make clods, pies, and balls
And let them bake in the sun
Resting in possibility.
By Daria Pardue