a slippery sunday tanka

Sun creeps through pained glass 

shattering against white walls 

and dusty floorboards 

as I slip through the shadows 

of yet another Sunday.

"How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become" - Doc Luben

The guilt pushes into the pit of me, like a magnet
pulling my belly button straight through to my spine.
I carry it low. 

It is an aching want that covers every inch of my skin
like I'm waiting on something that will never show
and so can't be named. 

I have forgiven myself for not becoming a mother.
What I can't seem to forgive is that part of me
that still thinks the universe will deliver.  

the first crocus

I used to think that you were bold
peaking through the cold soil
before the rest were sure it was safe.
Scouting it out. Blazing the way.

But I, too, like to show up early -
for doctor's appointments and dinner dates,
meeting up for a hike or the farmer's market.
I set the GPS even when I know where I'm going. 

I see you now, your purple petals shivering
in April's morning frost, counting your breaths
to calm your cluttered mind. Waiting.
Hoping you got it right, that the others
will see you and that you'll survive this.