Diamonds--poem

This one's dedicated to anyone and all of my friends and family members who have ever doubted how truly awesome they are.

There’re diamonds in the sky

they say

for those who are willing to reach for

them with outstretched, driven, strengthy hands

and a crystal reflection in their eyes

“I can’t reach!”

I heard you say,

and you jumped as high as you could (at the time).

My eyes rolled away and my body

followed my train of thought—

“coming aboard?” I asked.

This time, yours rolled. You’re gone, ‘til I find you

rolled up from rolling so much through

the mire

that has dimmed your sight of the diamond sky.

“You can reach!” I raise my voice with

my pointer

to our dreams twinkling high above.

The air vibrates around the sole figure,

the only figure alone with her sky.

“You can reach.” I repeat, in vain,

my breath rippling through the night

caressing the dew of first dawn.

The Moon pulls away, her rays curling upward,

giving way to the Sun and all His enlightenment.

I see you outstretched, glowing from God’s praise

for the creature God made is delighting in

the Sun’s glory.

I should be happy—perhaps I am—but I know

that those diamonds feel farther to you than Mother Moon does

with Father Sun owning the sky.

You seem blind by Him, that brilliant Sun.

You seem blind to seeing how close They are,

those twinkling, inspiring dreams.

You seem blind when you dip your little toes

in Sister Tide, tickling your tootsies with each lap and pull.

I feel blind and dumb, staring at Sister Tide, beyond your feet,

your tools for striding.

Until She winks

using Father Sun’s gifts, and cheekily sends them back

two-fold.

Maybe I’m crazy, and dumber than I thought, but I hear

Mama Moon giggle

as the answer’s revealed.

With a shout and a dance, I disturb my Sisters,

the water and the child of God’s gracious breath.

You look at me with that familiar perplexity, that confusion

twisting your nose into a cute button.

“’Til tonight!” I yelp, like Brother Wolf at his Mother,

and I dance away, prance away, to my box of tricks.

Some call it Pandora’s, for the power it holds—

I call it Ambition, as it leads me to precious, faithful glass—

to glass so crafty, so carefully crafted,

with Sister Tide’s wisdom-filled notion,

of handing back truths to the unbeknownst sender.

My heart beats you to me, dragging your tools,

worn from a day in Father Sun’s rays.

I say no words, just gestures to tell you:

“you can.”

Before those blues roll away from my suggestion,

your lips forming “I can’t” with practised ease,

I grab the glass, covering my face with your own.

“You already have,” I exhale, relieved.

I know what faith is, without seeing what you saw,

as, in the glass,

your eyes twinkled with the diamonds

we’ve both admired

all along.