by Roxie Powell

This is what whips you back,
yes, it was always there, a
light twink of loss, sometimes
a stoppage, a blunt reminder
the pain is still there, not lifted
by some magical illusion. You
realize that you are back, that
you never left, as if in truth this
“now” was the forever of life.
And, it is better this way, even
with the pain.

by Roxie Powell

These trees that still stand
tied to the land, their roots
deep and tangled in earth,
not unlike the tangle of cells
within the brain, our earth.
These trees allow me to breathe
unfettered by my need for a
semblance of poise
adopted to guard my grief.
For I am not so fettered to
the ground as trees, nor am
I able to create a cleansing air
like trees, whose roots go deep
within and whose branches
reach high above.
Something in the trees
among whom I walk
envelopes me step by step, until
slightly fresh, I begin to breathe
like the trees, deeper and deeper,
standing more firm, now, in the
ground of myself.

by Roxie Powell

Alone, on a distant street,
I feel the beat, where silentness
sweeps away time,
in time with my feet,
walking on a distant street.

There are shades at the windows
where children sleep.
Houses nuzzle one another
in coats of warmth, they
accompany me walking
on the street, alone with
the beat of silentness,
in time with my feet,
on a distant street.

by Roxie Powell

You held me once
An infant explosion . . .
I failed to explode.

You cajoled me into life,
I fizzled,
You held me, as though human
I might hold you also
I let go,
You remember touch,
I remember feel . . .
We expect so much,
especially when we kneel.