Part of my yearly intention this year is to learn to receive. I am a great Giver. I have been a poor Receiver. I forget that it is an honor to be given a compliment, a gift, a word, a special moment…yes, even a poem. How do we show our gratitude for such a gift as a poem?
Wanda Lea Brayton and I have been writing poetry to each other for years. We both have suffered great sadness that has quietened our poetic voices for a time for it is desperately hard to dig that deep where such great sorrow lies. It will come back. I have no doubt. We are both deep wells of poetry. Wanda Lea Brayton, I consider, one of America’s greatest modern-day poets. She honors me often. She is the reason for me writing so very much of my poetry.
I love that we can look on the internet, not see the artist, but know she has dipped into that sacred space of creativity and inspiration's well... the same well I do. Our talents are as unique as snowflakes, yet there is commonality; White, red, black brown...we are sistuhs of the blood and bone, but not necessarily of DNA.
Written for me by Wanda:
My Sister's Strength — for Carol Desjarlais
Beneath her gentle gaze, there is a suspicion of wings,
a sudden flutter of silk, the slightest sound of bark
dropping into a bed of leaves colored and crisped by Autumn.
Her eyes hold undiscovered worlds within them,
nurturing their songs, painting tales of now and then.
Her fingers sooth as they stitch wounds together,
moving swiftly so discomfort cannot linger overlong —
she hums as she weaves, discerning patience from pain.
When she thought no one was looking,
I saw her exchange knowing glances with butterflies,
their stained-glass smiles divining and separating rays of light,
their antennas interpreting murmurs and silence.
She understands we only wear these sheaths of skin
as an attempt to contain the chaotic energy of our souls,
those wild-sprite neurons and electrons which would soar
for a million miles, returning in an instant, barely missed.
We speak of an oncoming decade when first we met,
moments when we learned each other's languages,
although epochs have kept us close enough
so our lithe hands might offer ancient rose petals to each other
as we passed upon bridges between us, currents moving below.
Drifting, we gather stones and herbs together, yet apart,
their healing fires and fragrances melded under a quiet moon
we both kneel under, solemn and joyous;
time is merely an illusion, a metronome of rhythm,
for we are not standing below this furrowed sky —
we move within it, our cloud-dances experienced, adept and wise.
© WandaLeaBrayton
To revisit this, is powerful. We shall write again...right now...gosh, for 7 years, my Muse has been tendering my heart and attending to my needs...as has yours, dear heart, and our voices are too soft and just yet. Xoxoxoxoxo I adore you! Thank you for believing in me.
©Carol Desjarlais 1.10.23
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