Many Walls

 I am not a young woman, but neither am I old, and

I have lived in many walls -- in walls of nurture,

when my father blessed me with a twinkle,

though it may have been approval, for composing

a winning melody, and harmonizing it just so,

and also walls of hurt, straining so to see my mother smile.

I have lived in walls of passion when my soulmate wrapped me

like leaves of a giant flower keeping its secret for the night

and in walls of pain for decades in a body that one day quit;

in rooms with views that many never see: forests, slow deer

snowfall like dancing butterflies, windows through which

birds resting their weary wings on high wires their black bodies

were as notes on some celestial, stave;

I've lived in walls that viewed hydrangeas, azaleas,

the first jonquils of spring, acres of field with hay like

beckoning digits of gold, and in walls that viewed Pike's Peak

and all its satin'd siblings, or green and gray and clay,

subtle colors it took years to love.

I have lived in rooms of sorrow, closing on me like prison gates:

miscarrying once, twice, thrice, when I chose to stare down pain alone,

watching a swollen belly slowly deflate, but also in sterile walls

of both impossible pain and joy where twice, new-bloodened life,

encased in white, slimy as soft-boiled eggs, emerged from the

ballooned bulk of my divided flesh, and heard my newborns' cries.

I have lived in walls of war when my best friend daggered epithets

to murder my soul; as well, in walls of evil when my worst self

manifested, where in the mirror was someone I was forced to meet,

denied, and finally, had to own. I've lived in walls of shame

for being not better versed, more musical, more talented with the brush,

and walls of longing, when children grew and flew, leaving me for dross;

in walls with animals, dogs with slobbery cupboard love and

cats  who let me kiss their noses despite their warning whiskers;

I have lived in fear and loss, losing a young father, almost a mother,

and in walls of friendship and compassions from those who,

strangely, love me.

My dreams have walls within walls, and also I have fantasy walls:

A ramshackle house full of sun and children's laughter,

chickens pecking at corn, goats mowing the lawn, and cows on the horizon,

their great, unknowing eyes not yet met with butchery, and a llama with

angelic lashes, nibbling dewy grass.

I have lived in wall-less walls: my garden and its vegetables, their heady aromas

and beneficent birthings, -- and someday, I will live in sunken walls

in a room without a view; they come for me, those final walls

and in them will I sleep, at peace, with no regrets;  perhaps I'll dream

unworldly walls, fantastically thick or thin but really, it's not the walls

that matter at all, but what they keep out, and in.

copyright Julianza Shavin circa 2006