Friday, October 10, 2014


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

These old meadow-larked fields have their
tumbled rock walls with golden lichen suns,
and the forest, its shaggy edge.
My cabin has a magnificent mahogany
door, solid and rich vibrant brown,
salvaged from someone who could not love it
like I can; do not give away privilege to the
first hellos and last goodbyes of any given
day unless there
is great joy in it, and some amount of longing.

Boundaries have their place.

When I first moved to this mountain land, I
raced about in the thick duff putting up

‘No Trespassing’

signs on any tree that would agree to hold them.
But the trespassers and those big black bears take
them down: one malicious, one curious.
I’ve calmed a bit about the lines, well, more
accurately, somewhat surrendered, now making a
mark with silver paint, brushing on my grief for feeling
the need to do this at all – to say ‘No!’ because
the sacred is not always understood on sight.

What does one make of a life like this?
How many marks are needed
and in what form
for a woman to be heard?

“This is the threshold of my home.”

© 2014-2017/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"
Published by Talking Waters Press

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1 comment:

  1. Thank you for sharing the grace and humanness of your experiences and questions and answers, Jamie. They are gifts of companionship and courage.