WHAT IT IS TO HOLD

In my hand I held a pine cone
that spiraled to the carpet of needles
I heard the creaking tree limbs and
a deliberate aching grew of autumns
and such fallings, rustlings that made me
look up and see how small I really was
beneath this tree like one of god's legs,
taking root and showering me with
hope to grow and scrape the blue
with fluttering fingers because
that is what it means to live.

In my hand I held a seashell
which was given to me by a dear one
and I did not put it to my ear
because the sound of waves was
everywhere and I left with them
to a safe place where I was the
best swimmer and could breath forever
underwater, knocking bellies
with athletic fish who sang opera
and were terrific kissers.

In my hands I held my love,
who helped me to be understood
because that is so hard in this world;
you listened and tossed me the truth
like fruits of the bur reed that stuck and
at times dusted my thoughts like
butterfly tummies dust grass blades
with fine marigold pollen--
which is invisible, until I walked away,
and to my delight, saw that my fingers were
stained the yellowest yellow.

In my hands I held power to be,
to be taken seriously although
I still like to hide behind a tree
and scare the life out of you
just for a second to wake you up,
to wake me up and be a child because
she died much too soon and together we
can play in the woods guarded by deer
who watch over us because they cannot
tell us apart from thier own.

It is by running, walking and dancing
that I know a llama's lashes are lusher
than any other creature's on the earth
and that brown rabbits have excellent
eyesight because they like to stargaze
just like us on those moonless clear nights.
Like the ocean holds fish and the sky
holds stars with open hands and heart,
it is in this way that I hold you.

By Bhargavi C. Mandava

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