by Star McGill-Goudey
Beeswax candle she rolled,
while guiding her daughter’s tiny hands,
instruction on creating light.
Blue curtain she chose with her mother long ago,
that has covered every window she’s known since,
pulled back to an expanse of golden fields,
bending in the breeze, meeting sunlight, and distant trees.
Sinking into a couch adorned with deep blue tapestry,
reminder of ocean quickenings.
An ancient tree is painted on it,
deep rooted and twisted triumphantly by life,
branches open, reaching far into the cosmos, beckoning.
She is beckoning too, blood memories and imagination,
here in her safe space, in her home made by love.
Pen, paper, keyboard,
balanced on pillow of denim and leather,
sewn with her seamstress hands of generations.
But she wields her own brand of needle and scissors,
channeling the wise women that came before,
that created her from the beginning of time,
she is going to write herself free.
