Miss Zoie

Stepping into that old house.
I hear the familiar tinkling,
Of glass ornaments in the window.
The window is now dust covered.
The door squeaks louder than before.
The floor groans as I enter.

I can still smell that smell.
The archaic pungency that made me high,
When I would lay upon the carpets as a child.
It still makes me heady, even now.
Who knows what could have made that scent.
I used to blame the wrinkled dust gremlins.

My eyes slowly glide across the room.
It’s not like before, it’s dead.
A dirty, rosy pink carpet, broken blinds.
These are remnants of a happy home.
The wall paper peels, and the ceiling fan rotates.
Furniture from another era stands ever still.

We are the laborers sent to dismantle this world.
I help lift a table with a peach marble top.
How many tea cups rested here?
It used to sit by a sea foam couch.
And a menagerie of odds and ends.
These all were watched by a girl and a well on the wall.

She cried when we took her car.
She marched two miles to the store alone.
She told the neighbors such a passionate thing,
“They can have my car, but they can’t take my legs!”
The children just watched Miss Zoie,
As she made her way down the street.

It hurts us to admit that she cannot be here.
It hurt us seeing tears from such a proud woman.
If only time wasn’t so greedy, and relentless;
Then maybe she could still care for herself.
None of these thoughts help as I work.
I can see her standing outside just standing.

Her legs do not tremble, and her chin is set.
Miss Zoie is more courageous than all of us.

A Tower

In order to grow,
I throw a million pages off the roof.
They spiral in the air, they make a cloud.
My words rain down, black ink splattering.

The faces turn to ice, I fall.
Everything I fight against pulls me down.
Every other light is lit, on the street I live.
I could lie here on the pavement forever.

A woman comes, she bears gifts.
One is life, another is strength,
She cares for me when no others would.
I rise to my feet; I see my words, now frozen.

The woman gives me one last gift,
She gives me her compassion.
With this flame I free my words.
I recollect my thoughts, I recollect myself.

She has taught me how to build my towers,
Blades of grass laugh in the wind as I work.
I am constructing something very special.
Her liking will be instilled.

She has taught me so much.
She wove me a radiant scarf with her own hands.
I wear it to keep me warm, I feel her soft fingers.
They caress my face, I can hear her.
“An endless world lies at your feet, make it your own.”

With these words I begin to build my tower.
It is a work in progress, but a beautiful thing will come of it.
I will see the entire world when it is finished.
And when I do, I’ll have her there to hold.