A Crowded Chair

My father fostered in my sisters and me

a strong love for the written word.

As if answering to a signal,

the three of us

would scale the boulder of his big blue armchair,

press a book into his hands

and settle in close—

a nest of birds in footie pajamas,

nodding into Dad’s shoulder

as he read,

lending a voice to each character

and not missing any funny parts.

Years later we still have the chair,

but it only fits one of us.

We still have the books,

but they’ve been read too many times.

Outgrowing my perch

on the wide arm of that worn-out chair

meant it was time for me to find my own words…

yet I still sometimes miss

the smell of Dad’s sweaters.

(c) 2013 Marie KR

Advertisements

Solitary Alignment

There is something in the

               reach-and-tug of it,

the cool slip of skin on bark,

my fingers seeking the whorls and knots

like checkpoints on a long journey.

Destination: uncertain.

It helps to find a rhythm

(I like to use the off-beat thump of my heart)

to stretch, grasp, pull,

               breathe,

               breathe,

               repeat.

This is something I am doing alone.

I worked for that foothold,

fought for this perch,

and gravity has liberated me;

finally alone and far away

I can rest

with no more audience

than moon and stars

and a sky so wide

you could swim in it.

(c) 2013 Marie KR