A 13-hour migration from mountains to desert means a lot of windshield time.
While I could not exactly write outside, the act of moving outdoors, on a road, gave me plenty of inside time – time to think about all that took place in my life over the past 5 months.
Migration implies boundaries; for me, from one state to another, from one house to another, toward or away from family. Boundaries define the limits of an area. The connotation is one of restriction vs freedom. But I was playing with the physical and the emotional boundaries that we create, and the sense of safety vs vulnerability that we experience when boundaries collapse or change, and what happens to boundaries as we grow old.
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photo and poem © draft, Patricia J. Franz
This poem is absolutely a draft! I can feel – and hear – where I need to strike lines, re-word, re-think…There are two topics inside this poem: boundaries and truth, and they seem to be tangled together. So…more work to do!
boundaries
frame the lives we claim to live
the open door
the heart in hand
the rush of promises to be present
collapse like trust falls
wobbling when we look away
boundaries
define what’s yours, what’s mine
inside a circle, my truth to twist and shape
outside, they stare like museum-goers
my art received with whispers
thank you?
I leave in the dark
headlights pan the cedar siding
swallowed by pre-dawn still
muted goodbyes, home betrayed
I wind my way
hugging a sleepy lake shore
how is it days can hold so much?
brides and brides-to-be, bound
between babies and aging bones
Patricia Franz is a kidlit writer and published poet. She believes children, dogs, and sourdough have a lot to teach us about life, joy, and wonder. She has raised two boys, four dogs, and holds a master’s degree in Theology with a focus on children’s spirituality. Patricia, her husband, her Bernese Mountain dog, Bonny, and her sourdough starter split their time between the Arizona desert and the Sierra Nevada mountains. 