August burns Monday
into tomorrow’s ashes
of history.

The future will ponder
why a society gave an ear
to the rantings of a man
whose resume was failure.

In my desk drawer
are broken things,
bits of what were,
hopes of what could be.

It’s a journal without words
where a red paper clip
holds nothing together,
and a tape measure
never reached the length
of a bookshelf.

Tucked in a corner
is a faded love letter from my husband,
a few words about roses, and
how beautiful I was at seventeen.  

Sticky notes lay scattered
in confetti colors of green,
pink, yellow, and blue
waiting for ink instead
of just taking up space.

I should clean it out…
send most of it to a waste basket,
but not every treasure box holds gold.

Mine is a cluttered drawer
filled with broken things, the
archaeological site of a dreamer
with a catalogue of stories to tell.

I don’t know the yesterday me.
She walked paths of bubble gum dreams
wearing skirts too short for crosses to bear.

I still have long hair, but gray has invaded
golden blond, and I look more hag than innocent.

Oh, my younger me tries to break the
shadow door, but the creaking bone chain
that holds the key doesn’t like to rattle history.

I live in the moment…Doesn’t that sound enlightened?
It’s not. I’m practical because my tomorrows are shrinking.

The yesterday me thought she knew everything.
Today I’m always on a hunt for my phone,
because it holds lists of what I’m sure to forget.

Walls of ocean blue welcome me
every time I open your bedroom door.
It was the color you chose amongst
all the swatches that slipped through your fingers.

There must have been fifty shades
of sea and sky you pondered before
you found the one that spoke of waves
and splashes of joy.

I roam amongst your things in a dream state
traveling from when you were a little girl
until spring brought flowers in vases
earmarked with condolences.

Broken doesn’t seem to be a bold enough word
to describe how I feel, yet I feel shards of longing
splinter my ribs where my heart lies scarred
by hours of yearning to hold you.

Oh sorrow, you are a conundrum.
It is both tears and joy… I cry from your absence
and sing because of your freedom.
I stumble and I dance getting through what I’ll never get over.

Dear Dawn, my precious daughter, I am trying to be
strong in my weakness, be a light when I’m besieged with gray.
In this room of blue I’ve splattered with growing green plants
I am your mother learning how to swim in the space where you dreamed.