At long last I found you again my darling, after all those months of anxiety! Where could you be? And you are there, just in front of me, in the middle of those inert little dolls… When your turn comes be sure that fellow will notice your guy, I’m a good head above the others.
Yes, those idle folks will be surprised, such a small woman, with that huge fellow! We will laugh too, and cry a little. You will hug me, me holding you in those strong arms, my little beauty.
Then we will take the long road home, away from this city, no more auctions for you. You won’t leave my sight, on the way you’ll tell me your story. And I will tell you how much I love you, cherish you, how I feared to have lost you, and won’t let you go away again, without me…
Image source: Doll Auction at Caledonian market, 1920s.
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On the long flight back home we took great care of you: you, so fragile, so graceful…
Now you dance proudly on the special shelf, reserved for the most honorable guests.
Behind your mask, the mask of the Butterfly Maiden, under the beautiful wings, I see your smile. How could I forget? The Black Mesa, the immaculate sky, the vast horizon of your people’s land, a four hundred year old village, the calm words of our guide, the craftsman who made you…
You, in your splendour, a small doll for a child, a powerful Spirit… A haunting kachina girl… And, I, I look on, mesmerised.
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Passers-by in the rain
in a mist of thoughts, faces forlorn
no-one knows how long,
how long waiting for you to vanish
never to see your beloved face again.
Image: Little Penthouse, 1931. Martin Lewis. Drypoint, via kafkasapartment
It comes back at this time of the year: longing for open spaces, a different sky, another light in the morning… So we argue about where, and when, and for how long: not a severe argument, I’m willing to listen, and you have the grace to hear my reasons. But it won’t end for sometime, perhaps not even before the new year.
For we are travellers in a hurry, to discover, and also to retrace our steps, in equal measures. By now the range of possibilities is hardly finite. I lean toward the East, and you to the South. Evidently the West and the North haven’t lost anything yet.
Maps litter the room, photos of unforgettable places, mementoes of love in strange places…
We look at each other, and laugh. No chess game this is, more like a battle field!
We look at the maps, we search for the ideal nest – a place where to love and write… So we are in planning mood, drawing budgets, counting miles, making lists. Much to do in-between, we don’t want time to fly too quickly.
We want to walk along those streets, retracing our steps, pausing at the corner where memories linger. For in that city our souls roam, unwilling to depart: the summer of our discovery. We shall go back, for a few short months, retrieving our youth, opposing the onslaught of winter.
Tirelessly, we walk along the shore, the light reflected from the trees, as if attracted to your beauty, the sea breeze caressing your hair: a summer poem.
Deep in the cove lie the lazy rocks, and, perhaps some deeper secrets, even a sea monster and her mermaid lover?
We laugh: waves lick the sand, wooing the careless couple, telling again the tale of her, whose face launched a thousand ships…
Are you Helen, the peerless beauty whose fate was to have Troy destroyed?
Or are you the mermaid, for ever courted by the many tentacles?
We walk along the high brick wall, the road side covered with snowdrops and daffodils, soon to see the old castle, perched on the hill, surrounded by meadows, ochre stones on blue sky.
Few trees are yet in bloom: this is the time of year when Spring is lurking, not yet triumphant, but already more than a promise.
Soon, we take the narrow lane, bordered with hedges full of busy birds, I am following you, my eyes taking in the beauty of the morning and your supple steps, your curves and the sloping hills in one exalted breath.
Among the crocuses and the primroses we sense hints of more wealth to explore, perhaps a little later, the air is still cold…
In the middle of this landscape I am thinking of all the other places in the world, unhappy, and ravaged by cruelty and greed: what made us so fortunate?
This is our old room, where we used to play,
Our toys are no longer there, lost, sold, gone to alien places,
But the light is there, in the dusty morning, where we looked,
I at you, your eyes, your lips,
You at me, wondering
What you could do with this girl ~
In the magical light of our eternal summer…
Sarah could not sleep, never did when she was flying.
Most passengers had abandoned their films or books, next to her, the beloved husband was deep in dreams, the attractive and cherished face twitching from time to time.
They were now over Greenland, the icy landscape, far below, lit by a frigid moonlight through scattered clouds.
It would take them another seven hours to reach home, and they would face a new day – for her, without sleep.
But in her mind, there was only the girl, who’d shown her the Path of Life, near the volcano, at the foot of the Sunset crater, and Sarah loved her, for eternity.
Image: Edward S. Curtis, Chaiwa, courtesy Arizona State Museum, Tucson
You came in, as coffee was brewing, the soft sound and aroma of winter mornings.
Our eyes met, and I knew, and this certainty sealed the day: for where else would I be invited to drink off the chalice of time, humble mortal in front of the Goddess.
And so it was that I learned the Path of Life.
Inspired by the WP Daily Prompt, and a chance encounter in a museum…