Ecclesiastes

In my mind's eye, she would not leave the room to enter the new phase of her life. Thus, like a woman caught in Twilight Zone, she would remain stagnant or lost forever.
This very melancholy stage of our lives is richly embodied within the breathing veins of Ecclesiastes:

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose underthe Heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.
A time to get, and a time to lose. . .

"A Woman"

This is written in the Hebrew Talmud, the book where all of the sayings and preaching of Rabbis are conserved over time.

It says:

"Be very careful if you make a woman
cry, because God counts her tears. The woman
came out of a man's rib. Not from his feet to be
walked on. Not from his head to be superior, but
from the side to be equal. Under the arm to be
protected, and next to the heart to be loved."

I WAS vs. Am

I.
I was
blanketing the sound
of repercussion before realizing
I miss that incredible feeling
of waking up next to you,
of falling asleep in your arms,
of smiling because you made me;
it was always effortless,
the intensity your eyes instilled
beneath the surface of my skin,
embedded in my pores,
something soap could never
wash away;
but for some reason,
i scrubbed it dry.
II.
i am
inquisitive of the foundation
for my departure;
does it mirror your own?
an escape,
a release,
a temporary fix that may
be permanent if all the
holes can be stitched in a timely fashion.
III.
i was
never the type
to wear my heart
on my sleeve -
(it is now broken
& bleeding for all
to see)
the sutures are
merely bandaged over
& i keep ripping them out.
IV.
i am
an open wound
(& i still miss that
incredible feeling.)


The air is cold, mid-blue, and a hum descends down the mountains, through the blue-ridge valley. I put on a wooly jumper & rub my hands together, but the air is dry & they begin to chap. I pull a seashell out of my chest of drawers and pull it to my ear; I heard once that the sea takes for itself whatever it wishes, to escape from its lurches is more a curse than a blessing. I think about stringing shells across the Atlantic Ocean, like tin can telephones, with brown parcel string where the gulls can sit. I'll send you an Atlantic seashell,
so you can hear the waves.

swinging from the vines, lined up in the sunshine