Wearing Blue Stones

She’s disappointed I don’t sit with her for breakfast,

but how to explain to a child there’s a song

caught in your throat, I do not know.

I only say, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t think twice when you’re young;

favorites are a child’s claim, and a color

seems hardly harmless. But it was my choice, I am certain,

that caused silence to ache in my throat, for so long.

She favors the purples, and is wise beyond her years.

But I, the shades of fresh cut grass in springtime,

which have kept my heart open. But never once

did I consider the blue, or notice

the breeze that came when I walked along the coast;

or gazed at clouds passing by;

or listened for waterfalls, rivers dancing;

or tried to catch rain on my tongue.

It hangs from my ears now, clenched tight around my wrist,

draped around my neck, and gripped against my index finger;

the color of my lover’s eyes, and the eyes of my mother;

the shower curtain in my bathroom, and even the teakettle

shrieking on the stove, not at all afraid to sing.

I wonder if I had embraced the teal, the turquoise,

the aqua, the cerulean, the cobalt, the sapphire, the lapis…

Would I have sung sooner? Or found my voice as strong as the wind?

A mother knows well the tune of a lullaby,

but it is the melody of truth that brings peace.

Peace, courage, clarity, love; I’ve found them all

in the sky, in the sea; reflecting in me what they reflect in each other.

And isn’t it the things we often ignore, what often bring us peace?

Isn’t it the piece of ourselves that we hide, the piece of ourselves that can’t

sit still for breakfast – even when our daughter asks us to—

isn’t that the poem itself?

And what is poetry, if it does not sing?

Even on the day when your throat is aching,

and the sky looks more grey

than blue?