Mother, mother, mother dearest—

I’m trying to be strong, but I feel so lost…
I haven’t been afraid of the dark,
since you told me that the stars
shall light the way, and lead me home,
your wandering child, your daughter, your darling…
My soul searches for you now, alone in the dark.

I wish you could see these stars, how magnificent they are!
How crisp and cool they shine,
against a night so tarry black.
Venus aloof, aloft, alight
on her precious perch, overseeing—
all-knowing, all-being; worshipped, and worshipping.

I wish you could hear these waves, the endless wisdom
and secrets they keep, washing forward, backward, combing
the soft sand for all eternity, the way your long fingers
unfurled my unruly curls, as a little girl…
These cool waves, rocking me
like you used to do when I would fall, crying,
into your loving arms—
first violent, turbulent, knocking
me off my knees, threatening,
and then… a release.

Now the grief crashes softly,
a gentle caress, a subtle apology—
acceptance of what is,
gratitude for what has been,
and hope yet, for what will be.
The wind accepts my howls; the sea, my salt.
I am safe here.

I wish I could hug you close to me and whisper in your ear,
“See, here is the beauty that you told me of,
once upon a time, a long, long time ago,
in a land far, far away…
It does exist. It’s here. It’s now.”

I wish, I wish, I wish upon a star…
I will collect them all and carry them to you.
I will bring them home,
like we used to collect tadpole treasures
from muddy puddles, in buckets, hoping
we’d get to watch them grow into frogs…
My thirsty eyes will soak up all this light—
Absorb, drink, adorn my cells
with all their celestial radiance, igniting
a hundred candles in a small cave deep within my heart,
each flickering flame, a memory that we have shared,
tears we have cried, fears we have survived,
joys we have celebrated— this secret shroud of solace,
I will carry it to you. I will drape
you in this quivering cape of warm stardust.

When we meet again, I will look—
Long, slow, deep, into your eyes
and give this all to you—
Beam and breathe the beauty
of the Universe, from the cave
in my heart, to rekindle
a spark, a fire, a flame, in yours.

Wish you were here.
–You will be,
soon.

Inspired by thoughts of my mother, 
on a moonlit, star-shot night spent alone 
on the shores of Opal Beach, Florida.

This poem was written in May of 2020. The COVID-19 virus was taking the world by storm. I’d taken my first travel nursing contract and ended up working at an acute rehab hospital in Alabama. Florida beaches were only a 3-hour drive away, so I took a weekend off for some self-care. That night, God delighted my eyes with the most intensely vibrant sunset that I’ve ever seen. [The above photo doesn’t do it justice]. I found myself fallen on my hands and knees on the eerily, (amazingly), deserted beachfront, curling my fingers deep into the soft sand and letting the waves push me to & fro as I howled out my anguish at the slow, agonizing wilting of the woman whom I’d known as my mother.

This poem was written a year before I became a believer. I was desperately seeking and searching for answers. The natural world has always brought me immense joy and comfort, so you can bet that I head for the wilderness when I need to re-orient. I’ve always, so far back as I remember, agreed that there must be some sort of higher power– it’s pure ego & arrogance to think that we humans are the highest minds around. But I didn’t always trust that power– didn’t always believe that it was good. Here, I’ve finally taken that step… but I miss the mark, still, in heaping my words of praise upon the creation, rather than upon the Creator. I probably subscribed to some form of “moral therapeutic deism.” It would take another year of lived experiences– felt sorrows– for God to really humble me to the point of acknowledging and reaching for Him. But on this day, my mother’s first birthday in heaven, I’m so grateful that He did. Now she, waits for me.