Warm   Leave a comment

Through the ages
My ages
The vast mapped out points
Those that have represented themselves
Cold, stinging and creeping into
Familiar beds
Where mothers and fathers no longer lay
But other weeds grow up
And fast to shoot
Around the tender vine
Of my fascinating and all-consuming

Family means this to me
Because family bleeds its sickness
All over the face of a child
Only wishing for the warmth of the sun

Daybreak like a wild hunt
Pacing animals and clearing fields
Every thought of eminence
First going through the plow and then
Being shucked this way and that
Until the rhythm of our harvest
Bounces moonbeams
Off of the subtle plains
And children learn to grow themselves
In the absence
Or perhaps under the burden
Of tradition
And mindless obedience

I walk into buildings now
Head down and feet moving quickly
So that no one might see me as the ghost
I have evolved into
Instead I offer up
My heart for barter
And my insight for a sip from the water fountain

Strangers circle me and say
With kindness
That no one has ever reached out to them
Not like I do
Not with my ease, my commitment, my sincerity
They place open hands
Thrust into my direction
And offer me a seat at their table
Only a half loaf of day old bread
And some bitter wine from a rushed harvest
And yet still,
By this meager candle light
I feel more at home
More at peace
Then all of the Christmas decorations in the world
Could ever provide

I am among friends
And family means this to me now
Because family is not chromosomes, DNA and the blister
Of stories handed down from generation to generation

It is the opportunity to shine, to grow, to question and to be seen
When needed

As merely the child
Wishing only for the warming of the sun

Jen Czahur


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