Before the spinning, out of control, the shattered glass flying,
and my brain rolling upside-down…
I’d set an alarm
to wake myself from dreaming,
splash water on my face,
throw on my fashion of the day,
distractedly down dripped coffee,
then, dash into the frenzied machinations
of the weekly blur of the marketplace.
But, that ordinary day,
bathed in beguiling sunshine,
had dissolved into clumps of uprooted grass,
that flew past my crumbling windshield,
hypnotizing my psyche.
Not a mark was on me.
worlds had collided.
Where I had entered, carefree and laughing,
I stumbled out, stunned,
scraping soft skin on razor-sharp glass,
blood dripping onto the green grass.
My sole comfort: a sign standing mutely,
across the highway, in front of a little church,
stating simply, “Jesus: The Way. The Truth.
In a collision with catastrophe,
I had emerged
Later, I slept,
until burning liquid pain began pouring
out the back of my brain.
With no such thing as house calls anymore,
my only option:
careening over hellish highways.
Then, it was 9/11,
and I watched…
dissolved into years.
Tears stopped falling…
an empty chasm remained.
The sticking doors and windows of my silent house
arrested me with their stubbornness,
having to be shoved open by force,
due to a lacking of use.
Countless mornings were spent,
with curtains drawn,
shunning the light.
Cobwebs hung, mocking me,
the blanket of dark and silence enveloped me
like an ethereal shroud, as I wandered from room to room,
while my mind shouted for me
to awaken. For what?
This morning, this ordinary day,
I caught a glimpse of sunshine,
first silent, then, shouting,
through trill of birds and chortles of squirrels,
to my morosity.
I leaned, lethargically, toward the dewy windowpane,
resting my head against the cool solidity of the thin glass,
the self-imposed prison wall, that kept me
One little bushytail stopped his furious scratching,
amidst the fiery flush of fallen leaves.
He stared at me, unblinking, but for a moment.
Then, he bounded, uncaring,
on his merry way.
The unmistakable twinkle of that beady eye
sparked an ember,
I thought it had been long-extinguished
by torrents of tears, over long years,
or had surely been smothered by the ashes, of
all that remained, of
everything that had been
the sun had sound,
the light had movement,
and my soul, long silent,
began to sing.
With renewed strength,
I threw open the window,
scattering the chorus of a dozen birds,
and felt the warm sunshine, mingled
with the crisp breeze of a new day…
a day in which I would dress myself,
and call a friend,
and drive to meet her,
to converse over coffee
about how nice it is
to be alive.
Copyright 2015 Regina Plimpton Quinn