no grace in wanting

there is no grace
in true wanting –

it staggers,

and refuses
to be written –

its divinity locked
in the eyes

that yours decline
ever to meet

© Sarah Whiteley

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a welcoming heart

tonight I am knitting
a tiny sweater
the colors of twilight
so that you (stranger’s babe)
might understand how beautiful
some endings may be

and at the finish,
three little owl buttons
firmly fastened
so that you (sweet mite)
may learn to see the light
through life’s trees

nearly half a mile
of well-wishes in
carefully laid stitches,
so that you (bright spark)
might know the warmth
of a welcoming heart

© Sarah Whiteley

Lately I have been (to my own detriment) so very wrapped up in things that for the most part I cannot control. Finally, I’ve said “that’s enough!” and decided I really needed to do something productive and meaningful that has nothing to do with me or my current frustrations. So I found a hospital on a reservation that accepts donations in the form of warm clothes and blankets for the babies of new mothers and I decided to jump into it whole-heartedly.

I’ve made one rule for myself when I’m knitting these items – I must focus on the recipient of this item and remove all thoughts of my own worries from my head. Every stitch I knit should be done with good thoughts and intentions for this new life just starting out in the world. I’ll post a picture of the sweater when I’m done (I’m loving how it’s turning out). And then I’ll move on to sweater #2 with a more peaceful mind and an even lighter heart.

instead this silence

instead this silence
lies loudly
where shaken sounds
should fall
should frantic land
upon the bareness
of shoulders
and skin that shivers
where lips
should lay tinder
for flaming tongues
instead this poverty
of hands
without hands
to grasp
curves to cup
and combust
this space
should frenzied blaze
and give way
to crashing thighs
and blended sighs
instead this silence
this turning away
from tempests
when I would rather
remain and burn
beneath you

© Sarah Whiteley

consolation

days like these the frustrations overwhelm, bitter as over-brewed tea
a tiring test of wills to bide my time, bite my tongue
I begin to doubt such things as right moments
exist for goodbyes, for final severances

there is no singular juncture, no time I can point to
and say this hour that minute is where our road ended
rather, a bruised accumulation of unfulfillments and disappointments,
an agonizingly slow dying of this skin I am ready to shed

my consolation lies in the moments to come
that are not defined by you

© Sarah Whiteley