When she bought a train ticket to the West,
She pictured a new life by salty waters and
Soft sand that would mold to her feet.
Material for sand dreams and
Paths of introspection
A graveyard for a lost train.
Perhaps a lone bird saw the train suddenly veer,
Leave the tracks
And roll onto wet earth.
On the way.
There was no crash.
The ground simply swallowed
Up the the girl and
Hundreds of lives.
They never found the train.
Over a century later,
I read a bit of trivia printed
In a book about quicksand facts.
My son looked at me in disbelief.
We both pondered the
Unpredictably of wet sand.
Every night the dove
Flies through the maze of two hearts,
Leaving a trail of soft coos
Fashioned by a mother's love
And a grandmother's loss.
He clutches within his breast
An unsung song,
An offering of peace
To be sung only
When he reaches the center.
A gentle dove
Blessed by compassionate skies to
Heal the festering scars
Of two women.
Ode to EB White
He wrote that genius is more often found in a cracked pot
Than in a whole one.
And through the cracks emerged a literate spider
With a new definition of friendship,
And a terrific pig who valued life.
Close behind was a long, necked resourceful bird
With the confidence to find a new voice and
A mouse that redefined a loving family.
He met open doorways with an open mind
And took us with him.
Brief Bio: I often feel like a gazelle as I leap from hilltop to hilltop, finding inspiration in the valleys of my life. On one of these hills I will soon publish my memoir, my spiritual journey from the hills of one land to another.