a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

In the morning, you
glory — unfurling into
full bloom at sun’s light.

***

A common flower,
not showy,
persistent in your travels,
wending, winding,
climbing, sometimes binding,
easy to overlook
the glory of your
persistent opening 
to the light.

You prefer a balanced soil,
not too much light —
12 hours will do nicely —
lest your bloom curl inward,
shriveling from toomuchsun.

Your cousin opens
to the moon,
unfurling in the dusk,
basking through the night
until touched
by morning dew. 

I am opening
to an inner light,
a radiance, a spark
of glory
born before i came to be
and now unfurling
in words
and images,
and tenderness.

a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

Blue skies of morning
blot the starlight from my view;
still, the stars shine on.

***

From dust you have come, 
And to dust you shall return.
~ Genesis 3:19

We are made of stardust,
every part of our body
formed in stars
over billions of years
and multiple star
lifetimes.

We come from dust
and to dust we shall return.

All my ancestors,
near and far,
came from the same dust. 
Our skin tones are different;
sepia, olive, charcoal, lily white
The beat of the drum
to which we dance is different;
bodran, sammi, buffalo hide, goat skin
Our origin stories are different;
cave, sun, breath, moon

Regardless of color, drumbeat, creation story —
our bodies themselves,
the skin in which we live and breath and move,
are all sculpted from the same clay.

the invisible starlight 
of my morning
reminds me
i am made of stars
reminds me to 
shine on

a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

Sometimes the path fades
into a covering fog;
we see just this step.

***

Above the valley
a low bank of clouds
cover the mountain’s peak.
The mass of rock
emanates a brooding
invisible presence,
strength and power
of a deity
beyond human imagination,

A path rises
into the fog,
stone steps
ascending
into the mystery.
The steps below 
fade from view,
the steps above 
yet unseen.

Only this step remains,
the broad, flat stone
upon which I stand.

a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

Sweat: smelly and wet,
we apologize, hide it.
Still, *life* hard-earned.

***

Wash it off,
cover it up,
close those pores
with unfortunate chemicals.

Sorry, we say,
I’m dripping wet,
we say.
Don’t get too close!,
we say.

Here it is.
Life. 
Hard work.
We stretch our muscles,
birth a baby,
till a garden.

Sometimes
the sweat on our brow
Is the price of words
that will not come,
an apology
long overdue,
an unspoken grief,
now gushing forth unchecked.

The work of our life,
this life,
is not meant 
to be easy.

a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

I count survival
as the-best-I-could-do then.
In this time, I live.

***

little tree
still alive
still leafing out in spring
as if your skin did not split
after an early freeze
then peel
and fall to the ground
leaving no cover 
for your soft white inner core

as if the forester did not sever
your trunk
in an attempt to save your life
leaving one branch
askew and tilting to the side
still green
still drawing nourishment
from the earth
from your roots
still reaching to the sky

each spring
you stand
unfurl your leaves
offer a spot of shade 
just to the side
of your slender
deeply scarred trunk

you look broken
yet you live
in full treeness