I have not named
what it is I am grieving –
letting go becomes
unfeasible in such a state
perhaps it is simply
for a space which carries
both the gravity
and lightness of leaving
a place where inhaling
and exhaling
become something other
than separate acts –
disparate sides
of the same smooth stone,
palmed for the easy comfort
of its rounded weight
© Sarah Whiteley
I have counted out the days
that do not contain you
have lined them up like pebbles
I might have pulled from the sand
salty still and glinting gray
as stones from the shore do
I imagine they must remember
the rushing kiss of tides
just as I remember how
the brush of you once stirred me
that place where once there was us
has since smoothed over
and the fissure is no longer
rough to the touch or recollection
still I have counted out the days
and will keep them with me
clattering together in deep pockets
and in the corners of drawers
to remind me of those moments
that might otherwise be gone
and I will line them up like pebbles
until I run out of room to keep them
or breath to name them
© Sarah Whiteley
And with that, I am off for a trip to see family in Wisconsin. This will be a treat (really, truly a treat) as it will be the first time we’ve all been in once place together in four years. Busy schedules and distance make it difficult to coordinate schedules, but tomorrow is my mom’s 60th birthday and what better reason to come together than to celebrate one of my favorite people in the world? See you next week!
I do not need
to shine as the stars
or rise with the dancers
to pivot in unbounded sky
I am content
to reside in the quiet,
unoccupied spaces
a long, slow trail
of watercolor blue
the sigh between
the stones and sea
to live loose-scattered
as glass loved smooth
by the waves
© Sarah Whiteley
let me be silent
as the stones
that mark the line
between earth
and air
and sea
let me rest
with purpose
cool intent
edges smoothed
by time
and tide
and there
let me watchful wait
for two shores
that never meet
cold kissed
by rain
be still
be small
be awake
to all
moved unmoving
let the waves
curl and call
and the air
moisten and fall
be as stones
unmoved
and feel it all
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 