Through the Veil

I walked in my mother’s shadow
as her life took roads traveled.

I walked in my own,
and found roads forlorn.

I walk in light,
aligned with my Creator’s design.
And through the veil I shine—
lifted, divine.

It is different now—
looking back at her life
from where I stand.
She has passed on;
the door in this world closed.
But I can still speak to her,
feel her, walk beside her in ways
that don’t require form.

There is a difference
between the roads we inherit
and the ones we choose.
And the balance—
that tightrope between history and becoming—
is an internal struggle many carry.

I have walked the inherited path.
There is nothing against her.
In truth, I love her more now
than I did when I was a child,
watching her walk those roads
with silence and strength.

I now walk differently.
Not to escape,
but to evolve.

I don’t need names for what came before:
no categories,
no titles,
no clean diagnosis of pain.

We all grow up in stories
stitched with both perfect and broken threads.
But I no longer need to hold
every wound in my hands
as proof of my journey.

There is beauty even in suffering,
if you stop trying to control it.
If you let go of the need to label,
you begin to see life differently:
as a series of offerings,
as lessons in release.

I choose what I carry forward.
I choose what I bury with grace.

And in that space,
I rely on the light of my Creator—
on the force that weaves all things.
No name required,
just the knowing.

This is the veil I speak of:
walking from shadow into light,
from inheritance into intention,
from story into soul.

I walk now
not to prove,
but to be.
And that,
is enough.

… And His Name Was Michael

She waits for his death for in this life, 

their flames infused, but time thought it not be –

the ghost that visits 

is her imagination playing board games with reality.

She lays in sweet longing, 

turning pages of days torn and crumpled,

talking to the cloned figment 

her day happen to stumble.  

Heights of love swirls,

a jolted exhale from memories of their touch

 –a cry, a tear  –and more, 

the agony of sorrow, too much. 

For those almost tomorrows.

Ode To Rain

I love the smell—
earth rising to meet the sky.
I feel the touch—
each drop, a fingertip
from time’s first breath.

I taste it on my lips,
metallic, wild, alive.
I see the rain,
falling like truth
we once knew by heart,
then somehow forgot.

Hard rain,
pounding into the earth—
nourishing, stirring,
moving her bones
and mine.

Soft rain,
barely a whisper,
a lullaby for the restless soul.

I love the sound
upon a tin roof,
in the hush of busy streets,
across open fields,
beneath forest canopies—
and with crickets,
and with birds,
singing as if in prayer.

Rain at sunset—
gold dissolving into gray.
Rain at dawn—
a hymn too quiet to name.
Rain at dusk—
like memory returning
without apology.

I have laid in rain.
Danced within it.
Walked through it—
as though meeting myself
for the first time.

I am one with the rain.
It moves through me,
restores me,
reminds me:

I am not only the calm—
I am the storm within.