the road

    Straining to hear
Broken eggshell pieces on white plate of the day,
    drops of leftover rain
scattered leaves on brown feet of the road--
    bouncing from leaf to leaf
where does one find the path on these highways?
    in surround sound--

Inside the mailbox, spider dusty,
    Trucks rumble by, 
outside the lamp post, black sentinel.
    an engine idles, 
On the roped mat, where are the footprints?
    children holler. 
In the river of stones, where are the fish?
    It's like trying to hear a rainbow 
In the smoggy sky, where are the banners?
    from the bottom of a well.

We trudge in the lead-stained edges of our palms
    Struggling to coax the sun
in the everyday, seeking the spark to move our lips.
    from the corners of her eyes
We flounder, scouring the sea with nets and ropes
    to light and heal
to find that the pearl is inside us. The fire is within us.
    the parts of her that are ravaged.

We marvel at the sunrise on the moon-shaped lake,    
    She heard about a man
whose arms are wide as the river, face of red wine.    
    who wrapped himself in plastic
Gather all the broken pieces, layer a brick stone,    
    and lay on a hot tar roof,
lean on your back, a forest sleeps in your hands.
    begging the sun to come and heal him.
We build the road, one step at a time. 

This meandering created by  
Grace and Marian.

Happy Birthday to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads! 

We are honored and grateful to be part of this inspiring group.