When the Fires Dance

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

When the fires dance, know

that I am the maiden skipping

round with lilac flowers in my

long hair. “Beloved, I am here”, is

my young body’s verse, innocent

of long days and dark nights.

Dance with me. Welcome the

sun. Kiss the moon. Leaves

are on the branches and life

is rising. You, I’m calling to you.

When the fires dance, know

that I am your sister in spirit

and practicality, hand in hand

weaving the ribbons that bind

us one to the other and all.

How lovely this that we are.

Dance with me. Welcome the

sun. Kiss the moon. Leaves

are on the branches and life

is rising. You, I’m calling to you.

When the fires dance, know

that it is my face you see

in the shadows, heart turned

always toward the light. That

which flickers in illusion is

the future we live and share.

So, dance with me. Welcome the

sun. Kiss the moon. Leaves

are on the branches and life

is rising. You, I’m calling to you.

When the fires dance, know

that I am still among the flames,

lifting into the next day. Never

does a soul rest that speaks

with truth’s tongue. Ears

must be prepared to listen

to beauty.

Please, dance with me. Welcome

the sun. Kiss the moon. Leaves

are on the branches and life

is rising. You, I’m calling to you.

Dance with me. Welcome the

sun. Kiss the moon. Leaves

are on the branches and life

is rising. You, I’m calling to you.

~ Jamie K. Reaser,  Author

From "The Song Book" (a work in progress)
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Waiting Patiently

Art: Mark Collins
https://markcollinsfineart.com/

Patience comes to those who have learned

the value of a thing: a seed or a beloved.

It’s some set of bones saying,

“I know your worth,”

and never stepping back from the heart’s

placement on what could be but isn’t, yet.

In this hurried world, patience is a living

life declaring:

“There is something dear to wait for,

to still for. I will. I am. Until the time is right,

and then—oh, my deep desire.”

~

The cardinal happened to be on a branch above

the feeder, looking down, waiting patiently,

but he could have been there watching the love

of his life, below, scratching in old oak leaf litter,

not yet aware of their springtime unfolding.

Would it have mattered? I couldn’t have

faulted him for either:

Black oil sunflowers

Anticipated devotion

~

What’s interesting to me about patience

is how an act of nothingness prepares something

yet unclaimed to take full possession of us.

Patience is the slow welcoming of our singular

demise. Oh, excruciating bliss!

Sigh.

So, how much longer will it be before your

lips know reward?

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From a book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins

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Custom Builder

Art: Mark Collins
https://markcollinsfineart.com/

My soul was carefully constructed

of two opposing forces. One that

wants to nest, to tend a place of

otherness, the other to fly freely,

everywhere, endlessly.

One can travel, but a suitcase does

not a nest make. One can hope to

nest, but some longings, alas, don’t

land with the same capacities that

desires take flight.

The robin in the pine with last season’s

grasses clumped and streaming from

her beak is nesting.  I adore this. I adore

my memories of robin nests discovered:

The deep, mud-fiber bowls that hold

beautiful sky-blue eggs, maybe five, then

cheeping nestlings that beg for parental

deliveries all day long, then nothingness.

The robin is common, yes.

Springtime nesting is predictable, yes.

Yet, there is always magic, yes. Always.

As a child I was told that somewhere,

out there, there resides a great custom

builder.

All my life, I’ve wondered:

Does he have a plan for me and,

if so, is it ordinary enough to become

something magical?

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From a book collaboration with artist Mark Collins
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My Mother's Hands

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Today, I was looking down at my mother’s hands,

dry, crinkled, mapped out in wrinkles, veins as

meandering blood lines, literal and metaphoric.

I hadn’t before valued them. What they had touched

and held, what they had pulled toward, what they

had pushed away.

I remember, when a young woman, gently lifting

and guiding the gold ring from her index finger mere

moments after she took her last breath. I thought

about putting it on today, but I know that it won’t fit.

But, here are her hands.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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