Guest

She looked up and saw them wave,
the leaves at the very top of
the cherry tree.

Don’t wave at me like that.
I don’t know you.
I live on the ground.
The top of the tree is your home,
the branches are your family.
Don’t wave at me.

Are you beckoning me to climb?
I can’t leave this solid ground.
My branches would miss me.

Your swaying and dancing tempt me though.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like up there.
Stop waving at me!

Give me time to think and learn.
Grant me security before I go.
I’m not ready. Don’t wave at me!

I want more time for this love and laughter,
but I’ll be there, I know.
Winter will not sneak up on me.

—Caroline Reid

Grandpa played a violin and
surrounded me with Norwegian folk tunes.
He fiddled and rocked and sang and laughed.
His face was crinkled from
sun and smiles and songs.

When I was only 10 they buried him
on a hill overlooking a valley of flowers and trees
and a stream that will forever flow.
Like the stream, he stayed with me.
I still hear his violin
and his music fills my soul.

—Caroline Reid

Grandma died one day.

I lived 1500 miles away.
She died at 94.
I was too busy to stop and mourn.
I always sent her a special card.
She wrote back and said, “I like to be remembered.”
When she was 95 I bought a card to mail.
I stopped. I remembered. I mourned.

—Caroline Reid

He was four when he said it first.
“I want to be a Policeman.”
He said it again when he was eight.
“I want to be a Policeman.”

The mother who loved him laughed and said,
“Oh that’s fine. That sounds like fun.”
He said it over and over through the years.
She stopped laughing.

At 21 he walked out the door,
a gun at his side and
a bulletproof vest protecting his heart.
Hers was fully exposed.

—Caroline Reid

The red rays of the morning sun played the song of life.

The room was dark and morning came.
Through the lace curtain I beheld a cool and misty day
With verdant fields so filled with life;
Willowing waves of tall green grass in harmony with a whistling breeze.

A chord is struck within:
Awakened is undulating desire.

A chill, a shiver tingles my mortal being not of cold but of excitement.

My heart is a pounding drum;
Warmth flows with the beat.
Distant music comes closer and closer.
I cannot escape the beating of my heart.

Angelic fingers pluck out the music of old;
But I know, where ever beauty exists
Angels will fill my soul.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner