The Poetry and Short Stories of Marcia Miller-Twiford The Writing Forum Webmaster   AUTHOR’S BIO: A fifth-generation native Californian, born in Southern California, I currently live in the coastal mountain region of Northern California surrounded by nature in a small rural community close to the wine countries of Napa, Sonoma and Mendicino. I’m the widowed mother of a grown son and daughter. In addition to poetry I write essays and short stories, am a freelance reporter for my local newspaper, and am working on a novel which has been accepted for publication and will be available sometime in 2012. Most of my poetry is written in free verse. I choose free verse as did Robert Frost, Ezra Pound, and Walt Whitman, and as my favorite poet, Rod McKuen, does. Posting under the user name Word Weaver, a selection of my poetry and short stories are published at the Passions in Poetry website. Please click here to access. You’ll find me at their Open Forum for poetry and their Passions in Prose section for my short stories. My book of poetry and short stories “Reach for the Moon” written under my maiden name, Marcia Townsend, is available at all major book sellers including Amazon; for Amazon please click here, To read my short stories published here at The Writing Forum, please click here. My Email: marcia@thewritingforum.net   “A poet is a reporter interviewing his own heart.” ~Christopher Morley   MARCIA MILLER-TWIFORD’S POETRY Click on the button next to any title in the list below to be linked to that poem:   Fallacy of Control   The Man I Love   Music of Yesteryear   A Poet, Paper and Pen   Because There Was You   He Stands   Louise’s Secret   Return of the Sun   Landscape of Tomorrow   Finding You   A New Year - A New Chance   Ribbons of Time   Roses and You   Summer’s Demise   This Thing We Do   Bliss   Monday Thru Friday   Deception   Halls of Time   Shadowlands   Waterfalls and Writers   Carriage of the Soul   Quiet Mornings   As a Cool Wind   About You   The Fable Weaver   Ours Alone   Juncture   Introspection   Heart of the Evening   Cardboard and Whispers   Table By the Window   Calliope Weeps   Of Trains and Shattered Dreams   Prada and Grey Goose   Behind the Mask   Berries and Butterflies   Through Julia's Eyes   Fallacy of Control Unexpected detours leading to unplanned voyages staying awhile, traveling on. Leaving an imprint following some. Excursions in innocence nothing has ever been everything is new. Attaining along the way perpetuation techniques adaptation to change awaiting the next curve in the road of life. Leaning into the wind battering the storms crying in the sunshine laughing in the rain. All of us, mere passengers our destination known only by life's master conductor. ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   The Man I Love I have felt his tender kiss,  his arms holding me close in touch gentle yet with a strength which invigorated and excited me. Time and death have no meaning for he is as close as my next thought or the remembrance of a dream that doesn't fade with the coming of a new day. I've looked into his eyes and seen our truth. I have heard his laugh, felt his tears and shared his desire. He is my morning song, my evening prayer, my moon, my stars, my sun, my hope, a field of flowers in the barren desert of life, the cooling of rain on a hot summer day, the comfort of a fire on a cold, dark night, He is my reason for being, my destiny. Defying death, living on in my heart He is the man I will always love. ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   Music of Yesteryear Flashing, faded memories coming alive, reassuring again cloudy moonlit grooves the scratches of lost desire reminiscent of a time-worn lyric from a jukebox of yesteryear skipping across a hollow vinyl night a seventy-eight record its grooves worn beyond time the music comes to its end the memories fade as now regains its balance the lyric stops repeating you fade away the clouds dissipate and I am alone again ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   A Poet, Paper and Pen The word glorious is uppermost as he listens to the birds in the field feeling the impending heat of the day trying to break through the cool air causing vapors to rise from the meadow it’s another glad to be alive morning and the poet in frustration ponders searching for words to tell his feelings. They come and he’s without paper or pen memory will serve and he basks in the day complacent and confident he anticipates an afternoon of writing a moving testament arriving home he finds the words have fled with the coolness of the morning air all he feels is the heat of summer and a frustrated poet vows never again to be without paper or pen while the poem drifts on the winds of what might have been. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Because There Was You Always, I will remember that for a time, for me, there was you. I dreamt of tomorrows bright as the sun with long days blending softly into nights for love before unknown. And I believed in the impossible because for me, then, there was you. It was the most precious of times it was the most fragile and briefest of times. Now I face each new day more enlightened than before aware of all of life’s possibilities, encased in memories sweet, of promises kept, if only for a little while, until your time here was complete. Forever in my heart there will always be the treasured memories of the time when I was loved so completely . . . because there was you. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   He Stands Tall, handsome, young and vital again, he stands Arms crossed across his chest, blue eyes bespeaking devotion he stands, with feet apart, for the long stand He waits for her to walk through the light, to him and He stands © 2/22/11 Marcia Miller-Twiford   Louise's Secret I often wonder what happened to Harry. The first one you thought about when planning a gathering, the life of every party, the one you could count on to dance with a lonely lady, or bolster a fallen ego. There isn’t a woman in town whose heart didn’t skip at the sight of him and the men to be like him how they in vain did aspire. Then came the night when Harry met Louise. She in backless dress of red and five-inch stiletto heels, coming through the door, chandellier earrings swaying walking to the music’s beat with a think you can handle it attitude the scent of Obsession wrapped around her like a seductive fog overpowering the stench of overflowing ashtrays and spilled whiskey. Harry froze on the spot, charmingly debonair as always but with mouth agape he was speechless at the sight. No one was surprised when once compusure was regained he walked up to her and led her to the dance floor without a word and she walked into his arms as if that's where she belonged. I often wonder but only they know what happened then. Soon after meeting they took off for parts unknown and the irresistible charmer Harry was never heard from again. It’s been rumored Louise had inherited a small fortune, from a father who had paid her little mind, and Harry was one who just got by, but how nobody knows. Louise came back to town awhile back dressed in what for her is conservative attire, her Louis Vuitton luggage looking as tattered as she does. Her hair once her crowing glory now shows a tad of gray, it’s lost its glorious sheen and lays limply on her pale shoulders. Day after day she stays within her dwelling, doesn't speak with anyone, has her simple fare groceries brought in, caretakers for the palatial property come and go and her porch light stays on all night. On rare occasion she's spotted on her balcony her head down, back to the world a more solitary figure this town has never seen. It appears that whatever happened to Harry is Louise’s take it to the grave secret, something we’ll always think and speculate about, but none of us will ever really know. because Louise, well. . . Louise isn't talking anymore. (Curious about Harry? Click here and then scroll down to “Harry’s Return” and click on it.) © Marcia MillerTwiford   Return of the Sun Long did I linger midst the dark, damp forest of despair unaware if the sun was shining above. The dense foliage forming a canopy overhead covering the sky with outstretched moss-draped arms fingers reaching out as if to envelope me. The ground underfoot strewn with molded pine cones. The oppresive surroundings leaving a bitter taste on the tongue. Thick air resonating with sounds of loons in a faraway pond. Longing for home I make my way back arriving to find roses blooming in the sun and in the mail. . . a letter from you. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Landscape of Tomorrow (based on what I see happening to the county where I live) The once silky, verdant grasslands of our glorious hillsides Now but gouged, raped testaments to the greed of man Venerable, trees planted by nature, forever their grandeur felled Disenchanted, frightened songbirds abdicated to unfamiliar lands Greed plants its stakes of tomorrow, twigs of a fine Chardonnay Watershed now depleted, some winter’s floods waiting to take What remains of our once beautiful and protected valley Now a landmark sacrificed for new vintages and fame’s sake They’ll plunder and toil then reap their selfish harvest As we watch their progress with heartbroken sorrow Another disfigurement of Mother Nature’s artwork Those vineyards of greed, are our landscape of tomorrow Where once small children in delight watched the wildlife Will soon stand palatial tasting rooms for the palate’s delight We have evolved into the new wine country of California The heritage we shall leave our children What a shameful, pitiful slight © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Finding You Carrying a satchel of shattered dreams I trudged along countless pathways Traveled the continents far and wide Climbed mountains where none had gone before Crossed rivers seemingly wide as a sea Walked through the woods and did not see the majesty Attended festivals in far off places hearing not a sound Dined on the finest cuisine with an asleep palate Looked at mirrored walls and saw no reflection Drank wine with strangers in far-away places Awoke one morning in your arms Realizing then... why the arduous journey. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   A New Year - A New Chance celebrations did abound we lifted our glasses and toasted and we make our resolutions most of which will be forgotten way before the coming of spring it is the time of new beginnings yet there will be a few less butterflies next spring a few less ferns to adorn our bouquets while the genetically altered frog stumbles and we reject the knowing that all is disappearing into the vortex of greed and ignorance still, the forgotten sun will again bid good morning kissing the remaining snow with golden nuggets and we’ll observe in awe the beauty of each new day soon tulips will proudly display their rainbow colors as the narcissus acknowledge them and bow squirrels will scamper about, happy in their freedom as the grasses bend and sway in new growth keep imagining, for without change soon it will not be imagine no more flowers, no more rivers, no streams I cry the tears of the melting ice caps, cry with me as we howl with the wolf and run with the deer and flounder with the salmon with no place to go for there is nowhere to retreat, there is only here here in the mire of our mutation God's glorious creation desecrated feeding our greed for more and better we have consumed and destroyed meanwhile we bemoan this winter’s ice and chill as we will curse the increasing heat each summer with how many more winters are we to be graced? pile your plate with fish while you can friend how many species were obliterated today? rejoice in the chill of winter they say no ice caps in 2040, let us pray and sing loud in the oppressive heat of summer for soon it may well be the only season it is all we have, do not complain it is all disappearing so fast at the end of the remaining rainbows awaits an abyss rejuvenation is exhausted and nearly depleted we are the destruction derby of creation what fools we have been, we the honored caretakers throw away your aerosol cans, recycle your rubbish stop pollution of land and lake and soul end all war and love thy neighbor make a resolution to make a difference lest we weep with the willow as we witness the irreversible end for Hell hath seen no fury like that of Mother Nature scorned  © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Ribbons of Time Gathered years bound together with silken ribbons of time pages of hellos and some of good-byes mementoes of days in early spring when we filled our arms with long-stemmed flowers of forever and everlasting perennials of what lay ahead and after the rain we picked bouquets of vibrant annuals their variety endless then summer found us romping in fields of green knowing nothing was ever as this and as the trees began to turn to autumn’s vibrant hues we gathered leaves and put them between pages of disappearing youth now we feel the chill of winter and we wonder... where did all the flowers go as we face the lack of tomorrows and place yesterday securely in pages of memory and set out to find one more field of blooming affirmation for that inevitable day when it will all be bound together with the unraveling ribbons of time. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Roses and You I close my eyes and feel you embracing me I hear your voice,,, my days are filled with music your words of love are my lullaby at night I drift away on memories of times we shared how you softened my life with promise scattered stars in my eyes placing around me a veil of hope you scented my emotions opening them up and filling them to overflowing like a bouquet of blooming roses each one unique and each so very fragile - like our love now you’re gone yet, forevermore, when I see roses I will feel embraced by you. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   This Thing We Do They sometimes come scattered across the tapestry of the mind fragments of thoughts bits and pieces to be put together like a puzzle. Sometimes they come in tidy bundles tied up neatly like a gift from a lover beautiful and perfect in concept. How ever they come they are demanding screaming for attention and action threatening to disappear if not tended to. We grasp at them, calling them our own but are they really ours, these wonders crafted from afar yet claimed by us. The magic of this thing we do this world of ours, our poetry. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Bliss He places his hands on her shoulders She turns, wraps her arms around his neck Hands at her waist, he pulls her close The meat loaf resembled a black brick Potatoes looked about the same Salad warm and limp Peanut butter never tasted as good As it did eaten cuddled up In love’s lingering afterglow © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Monday Thru Friday The saddest sound... Your car pulling out of the driveway Each morning The sweetest sound... Your keys tossed onto the counter Each evening © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Deception Someone rendered him compliant A stranger who claimed him He bowed to a fabrication And blatantly defied our truth. As the poplars wept And the night birds cried My heart screamed, and my soul bled as I lay under the stars searching for how to begin. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Halls of Time Everything is known, everything is planned all the answers kept, every tear you ever wept each and every penny through the years spent the moment you took your first breath till the moment you will take your last those whom you’ve loved those whom you’ve yet to love the people who will love you your frowns, smiles, disappointments and jubilation the times when you eased a baby’s cries the times when you gazed into a lover’s eyes the future days of spring, summer, fall and winter times that await discovery aglow in their being the days when clouds may obscure reality and those when the bright sun gives promise the many things you’ve forgotten the things you’ve yet to know there is no hiding, no escape it’s all enshrined in perfect order within the halls of time. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Shadowlands Beyond the gardens of my heart through the green valleys of life lurk the shadowlands mercilessly calling to me day after endless day to view with bruised spirit countless tears on saturated grasses sheltering scattered seeds of hope that without light and warmth can not grow yet staunchly remain in abeyance nourished only by my never-ending love dwelling dormant in yesterday but compelling in their power to evoke the memories... grim testaments of the reality that the dream will never die and may with the coming of a new sun bloom again while I am relegated to one without the power to resist and must return again and again to the shadowlands of what we once had. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Waterfalls and Writers They bring to us gifts for the spirit gathered from the waterfalls of their minds crystal-clear thoughts put onto paper some free verse and some to rhyme cascading to nourish and teach us opening us to new thought sometimes they simply entertain or bring us wisdom long sought they give comfort for the troubled guidance for those who are lost solace for the hopeless and grieving from deep in their hearts they give to us a gift on paper to the world trustngly tossed. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Carriage of the Soul The wind recognizes you rustling through time in quiet whispers, shifts and changes its course, allowing morning's mauve-shadowed murmurs to cover you as sweet as a newborn's breath. Magnolia's layered scents mixed with spring lay upon your shoulders and the twisted gnarled weeds of time straighten in prolific bloom then bow to whom you are. You are the journal of miles traveled the miracle of whom you have become etched upon your face with a master’s fine brush crowning your head in soft silken threads brushing your lips with bruised memories a masterpiece of sublime artistry residing within a carriage of the soul. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Quiet Mornings For Gene Twiford - In Loving Memory I watch as you sip from your morning cup and I listen to the silence. There was no glad to be alive morning greeting and hug. Where did the sunshine of your laughter go? What happened to the hustle and bustle of the morning ritual? The only sounds I hear are the quiet routine of the refrigerator and my own shallow breathing. Why is there no newspaper on the table turned to the sports page? When did you stop asking me what my plans for the day are? Why is there no lingering scent of your shower soap or after shave? All there is is the stiffling aroma or loneliness. Glancing into the bedroom across the hall I see only my side of the bed rumpled and then I remember, no more morning hugs setting the tone for the day no more that feeling of your arm resting on my shoulder in reassurance that you’re close by no more nights being held in the safety of arms that love me beyond all others. I look up at the sky and say yet another prayer of affirmation that you are at peace, my beloved husband, while I try to find a way to stop the quiet. ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   As a Cool Wind Too old am I for unrequited heart-felt promises not kept as piercing as red-hot daggers scaring over scars letters strewn about the back porch a resemblance to falling leaves of autumn the air oppressive with late summer heat a smothering blanket forcing me against my will to keep on breathing demanding breath after breath Billie Holiday coming through the speakers sings my song eyes scanning unwilling the letters page after page they tell the story of years of hope crushed trust extinguished like a burned down candle’s flame dying a slow death agonizing over what might have been the truth comes like a cool refreshing wind followed by acceptance love is for the young let them have it, I need it no more far too jaded am I. ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   About You The songs I sing, the words I write the how and when, the where and why they’re all about you. The caress of the wind, the kiss of the sun my ups, my downs, my laughter and my frowns, they’re all about you. The days, the nights, the quiet afternoons my past, my future, my present they’re all about you. The mistakes, the victories, my dreams, my desires and my schemes they’re all about you. The laughter, the joy, the tears, the pain my heart, my soul, my breath, my very being all of them ... they’re all about you. ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   The Fable Weaver Conjuring up sights to fill the mind days of long ago or those to come eradications of now at any price she spins her fables for the world never letting anyone close enough to see the pain so well hidden underneath the banners of words. Into the dark hours she writes locking out the possibility of dreams for in them rests her truth the restless nights repeating endlessly until the light of morning again rescues she cleanses away the night then dons her gown of the carefree to take on the world one more day. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Ours Alone No great books have been dedicated to us no songs have been written with us in mind yet we are the essence of every thought of love that ever was or ever will be. No author could describe what we have no lyricist could find the right words to accompany the melody of love's mystery that encapsulates us and guides us. We travel the days with the all knowing wind powerful, yet as silent as the deep of night our course charted by the force that brings two people together in perfect harmony. No one could write rhetoric to do us justice for they know not of what we know have not been where we are nor are they destined to be where we will go. This deep mysterious reality that is us belongs to us alone and cannot be told by another no poet nor lyricist knows what we know this is us and our world, our treasured destiny. Yet somehow they manage to come close with books that will outlive time melodies that will ring throughout eternity but the essence of us is not there... it is here. ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   Juncture Late at night, alone She walks the quiet avenue Erect and proud with an air about her That seems to say she’s proud of who she is Stopping at an appealing spot She orders a drink and listens Through the open door To the mournful sounds of a saxophone In a club across the street Finishing his gig for the night He carefully cleans and puts away The treasured instrument that is his life... The pure essence of the man. Then joins the others for one tall frosty one Leaves the club turning at the corner And with his saxophone held close Heads down the late night street To his one-room flat and more nothing She also leaves heading back Down the quiet avenue toward her hotel They meet at the corner exchange smiles She feels her heart skip a beat Then thinks about her flight in the morning He thinks about her and then About tomorrow's promising audition Both stop to gaze in shop windows Obligations over temptation battle within as They continue on their separate ways And the quiet night shudders as Destiny screams at their rejection © Copyright Marcia Miller-Twiford   Introspection Winding roads through miles of land where no man has cut down trees to build his dwelling so fine. Feeling as though no one has ever walked here before virgin land untrod by man in his quest for adventure. There’s peace to be found here where wildlife still roam freely amongst tall pines, in shady valleys. Chancing upon a trickling brook pausing to wonder to where it travels, from whence it came. The air is pure and cleanses the senses as I listen to the quiet a sound unlike any other. Back into the world endowed with a different perspective a deeper insight creating a longing for more of that which is as yet unspoiled. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Heart of the Evening Sitting silently I watch the fog drift by my window and hear the surf pounding onshore. It’s a night for gazing into the fire and idling the time away. My book, face down on the table, tempting me not quite enough. One of your favorite compositions plays softly in the background and suddenly I hear you. Your steps upon the sand are hesitant and as faint as a bird’s breath but heard and recognized. Through the haze I see you pause, gaze towards my window, hesitate, and then disappear. Hastening to call you back I find no footprints in the soft cold sand. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Cardboard and Whispers The street is quiet, solemn, cold before dawn, pangs of hunger sound the alarm as hands that used to finger coins in pockets are rubbed together for warmth, before a rising, pale yellow sun, that scratches the thin sky like sandpaper. Tattered attire adorning weary forms that once blended in with others through days of diligent labor, now rush to scavenge through the park’s refuse cans. The door of the corner gas station is missing as they wash at a filth coated sink in barely running rust stained water soap a thing of the past memories of cleansing morning rituals disappearing challenged by day to day survival. Outside the sidewalk is cracked, scarred, as calloused as their faith. There’s cardboard and wooden crates in the alley, tonight’s suburbia for the first come, first served. Pushing supermarket carts of hope, they search for coveted recyclables, bounty from tipped over, dented trash cans, amid moans of the young and the old, no discrimination on the streets of broken dreams, they’re the disowned, forgotten, the helpless, the leftovers of society, someone’s mother or the not quite yet man, the discards of uncaring relations with bibles on their food laden tables of indulgence. They walk as the deaf, the blind, unheard, unseen. They are our brothers, sisters, they are withering, they are dying . . . can we not hear them? See their eyes open in quiet screams? They are those who scrounge for the discards of our pampered lives. the aborted by-products of down sizing, Those whom we scorn and scurry by, for our hearts fear and whisper, “There but for the grace of God go I.” © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Table by the Window It's fitting that the restaurant be almost deserted that the table be in the back, in a dimly lit corner for I seek not the company of others this night. I seek only the comfort of my thoughts of you as I sip my wine and briefly scan the familiar menu notice the tablecloth slightly worn but crisp and fresh. A candle flickers illuminating the pool of wax at the base like tears collecting over the years one on top of the other and a single rose in a vase seems as alone as I. With such love in my heart why seek the dismal I ponder this as I look around the room with non-welcoming eyes and see the couple being seated their faces aglow with love. They could be you and me were they not so young but we've lived most of our years already though apart as close as the napkin I dab my tears with. Someday we will enter this place hand in hand seeking a table by the window where those passing by will look in and see two people smiling at all the yesterdays. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Calliope Weeps *<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>* In Memory of AK English 1964 - 2006 My Friend, My Mentor, My Soul Sister *<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>* The poetry world you left behind is a silent place; without you to inspire a reverant hush replaces frantic scribblings. Those who mourn your passing spend memory filled nights and in the light of day their pens lay unused, papers blank. Their hearts are with you beside the bridges near your final resting place. Poetic inspiration waits with them and they feel Calliope weeping for one more day to inspire you. But you are not there. You were too pure of soul to remain. Now You are a scribe of Heaven writing lyrics for angels to sing, songs too sweet for human ears, words that adorn the endless night skies as ribbons of stars. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Of Trains and Shattered Dreams She leans into the damp, cloying wind, her breath a secret omission, her disillusioned eyes touching the gray sidewalk like silent tongues, numb to even the wet chill of the evening. Coat clutched at her slender throat wading through thin yellow streetlight, discarded cigarette packages, brown leaves that winter refused to wind away. Ruffled rooftop pigeons with unblinking stares watch the charade and the windows of shops shudder as imaginary footsteps in pursuit attempt to reach her, she feels her heart speed up then slow again. She rushes on then stops and stares into the window of their apartment beyond the twisted ivy slowly claiming the red brick, as he had wrapped tendrils of deception around their life. Then, she peers into the window of the apartment next door now seeing the white suddenly streaked through her chestnut hair, etched lines on her bruised face and her battered ribs protest as she exhales breath too long held. The shelter in one direction, the train to who knows where in the other. Fierce determination of never again flashes in her eyes as she hears footsteps gaining behind her . . . but he's not there. It’s her fear she hears haunting, day and night, ever haunting. With the haste of survival, adreniline coursing through her, she picks up her forgotten dreams anxious to answer the welcoming call of the train's whistle knowing she will board, seeking safety’s freedom in the unfamiliar anywhere. © Marcia Miller-Twiford   Prada and Grey Goose Strutting down the street her feet encased in Prada grey suede striped detail pumps Her Italian leather bag clutched in one hand Starbucks' Mocha latte in the other She passes a tearful woman huddled In the doorway of the building Next to her office never thinking How the woman could eat for the day On what she paid for her usual Morning pick me up beverage. Meanwhile overhead a corporate jet Flies over a quickly filling tent city Its occupants not knowing or caring That some of their laid-off employees Are below stretching canvas to provide Shelter for their children who are Now homeless and finally realizing What the word foreclosure really means. She'll stop on her way home for a Drink with the girls, end up having three. The execs in the corporate jet will Be sipping Grey Goose vodka While wondering who'll be laid off next. Children in the tent city will go to sleep hungry. In a blink Prada and Grey Goose Will be stretching canvas next to the children All the while wondering what in The hell happened, while Starbucks Goes belly up. © Marcia Miller-Twiford 2/27/09   Behind the Mask Leaving behind the sanctified ground with its musty grasses and dead blooms the woman discards the gown of black and begins to reclaim herself from the abyss. She knows the tales the headstones tell in the far corners of bleakest darkness she’s seen beyond the limits of unscathed mortal understanding where the Dorian Gray incarnates roam freely amongst angels in the bright of day. Unmercifully left behind she shudders. As the bell continues to toll. she attacks the onslaught layer by layer, shred by shred, until everything is covered, hidden well. She’s chosen her new facade carefully, as bright as tomorrow may well be the mask is in place and she, refusing the comfort of eyes long dead, or a heart numbed from aching, vanquishes it all donning gilded gown. With invisible shield in hand she roams over and through the remaining dimensions of life liberally bestowing smiles upon all and juggling time in perfect synch. Layer upon layer of tears now dried, hope forever within her, mourning becomes comfort, the ordinary order of things. The smiles continue, the games play on as the days repeat in haunting echoing she places them in a carefully cultivated, tended with love, garden of time knowing inevitably they will return. And behind the mask she quietly weeps, the salty, stinging, redemptive tears of those who have seen beyond and like her, stood their ground and fought, and fought, and fought again, and somehow, managed to victoriously survive. © Marcia MillerTwiford   Berries and Butterflies We picked berries that summer carefully laying them in the bucket as grasshoppers jumped to ride our skirts and a purple butterfly danced just in front of us Skipping past Mr. Crawford's corn field we saw it just about ready for harvest a good yield it would be Mama would make us wear old shirts on backwards to cover our dresses from the dripping butter running down our fingers from the choice ones she'd boil up the others she'd put up in jars for the winter Excited to show Mama how many berries we picked we ran into the kitchen and got yelled at for getting stains on our clothes just as a grasshopper jumped off my skirt and Mama starting swatting and yelling as it jumped and jumped just out of her reach and we worried about Mama and dancing butterflies Would she ever see them?   Through Julia's Eyes She's become a part of my days sitting there on the bench in the shade by the fountain. She doesn't see the trash piled up by the refuse can she only sees the birds pecking for scraps and she shares her lunch with them; simple fare carried in a brown paper bag which she folds and puts back into her pocket. She watches as the couples go by hand in hand and I know she's thinking of when her's were warmed by the gentle touch of a long ago lover. Serenity is what you see on her face. Time has robbed her of her youth but given her wisdom and memories in return; a lifetime showing through in placid compliance. The children see her, call her name, and run to greet her she speaks and they laugh and she laughs with them. She smiles at passers by who barely give her a glance. Ready to depart she waves at the tree squirrels then smiles at the mid-day sun. With the dignity of one who has lived long enough to see the beauty in all things she departs down the lane from whence she came. Calm of spirit, infusing the day with her grace. I find the world to be a beautiful place, when seen through Julia's eyes. ©Marcia Miller-Twiford   Website Home Page