from this flight: find light
carry it twenty years past
your flight-or-fight life
through the turbulence
of youth’s wanderlust wonders,
past career questions,
into the blue sky
of a healthy tomorrow
shined by little grins.
find the golden light
carried by heavenly wings
that kept you on Earth.
happy fortieth,
twenty years without cancer,
and still shining bright.
a lonely park walk
can rejuvenate the soul
(my soul needs flowers)
it isn’t church,
but a Sunday morning sunshine ride–
a line of bikes glistening in waning summer heat,
with shout-outs as loud as a preacher who
calls his parishioners to God:
Bike up!
Bike back!
Slowing!
Gravel on the path!
Car up!
Clear!
the words trickle down the line,
heated breaths repeating them
so loud that even prairie dogs
stand at attention to hear.
and we wrap ourselves
in blue-sky calorie burning
led by a fast-paced 78-year-old man,
just as forgiving for our
missed turns and flat tires
as the best of His missionaries.
yesterday we learned about sod
and homesteaders’ dreams being trampled by wind and hail and no water
and how they were tricked into
settling on free land.
nothing is free.
how they built brick by sod brick–
tiny houses not much taller than themselves,
and posed in front with shovels on the roof,
no time to take them down for the picture–
for what if it rained, or a snake crept in?
yesterday i thought i was a teacher,
and they were learning from me,
my immigrant students building up their vocabulary
brick by decoded brick.
nothing is ever what it seems.
today they entered and i asked them to write:
describe challenges when you moved to a new place.
and with the new words fresh on her tongue, she told me:
just like the homesteaders,
my family had to move to a new camp
and my father had to build a sod house,
no taller than that one in the picture.
and so my student taught today’s lesson:
one hundred fifty years later,
we are still making bricks
instead of trying to break them.
if you made the choice
to love and welcome, not hate
the world would change
scaling these cliff walls
feels easier than your words
of guilt and judgment
yet, rivers sparkle;
ancients thrived here, not survived
(just like you and me)
too much to take in–
the beauty of history,
of sights still unseen,
of children’s faces
as youth clings as fleetingly
as the setting sun
we are captive here
in these soft moments of light
(help me preserve them)
celebrating us
with a long walk in the woods
(away from it all)
silence is golden
when resting feet at sunset
(your birthday present)
the breeze reminds me:
i drove twenty-one hours
to find this beauty
better than the beach:
that grin on your face; these views;
hard-earned sore muscles
thank you for crazy–
(the long drive, the longer walk,
another “us” year)
forts can be pretty
and with alligator moats
quite exciting, too
hobbit holes exist
if you travel far enough
to open your eyes
cousin love binds us
just as beaches and waves do
under our shared sky
biking brings beauty
along every road we ride
from mountains to coast
oldest Florida site
enthralls us like we’re in Spain
(memories abound)
coquina fortress
built on the sweat from slaves’ backs
(engineering feat)
defense of this sight:
gleaming harbor colony
(worth the protection)
a dogged day’s drive
at the end of this journey
(worth the distraction)
history, not mice:
Florida is more than Disney
(all they need to know)
from a fighting ride
to playing dolls on the beach;
camp beauty parlor
love my travelers–
though they bicker and complain–
the road unites them
only each other
to entertain, love, and learn
making their journey
under this bright moon
as it waxes our return
to everywhere home
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