By Justine C. Tajonera
It used to be
that there was always
something for me
to climb:
ladders, mountains,
cubicle heights.
At some point
I looked out
the windeow
calmed at the sight
of open space.
My hand in the wind,
reaching out to the flat
planes of the horizon.
There is no up
or down,
forward or backward.
I am shining now
in this space
or I am not.
I am here or
I am not.
The gradations
of the light
and anything lss
than my
presence
does not
matter.
(Oct. 23, 2009)
Image from www.expat-repat.com
By Justine C. Tajonera
I bring a couple
of coins to
the pantry
for my vendo
machine coffee,
thinking of
the long commute,
the dark skies
outside,
all the people
I'm not talking to.
There are wide open
spaces
outside the
rows of
boxes here.
My mind splits,
reduces,
curls into
a tendril of
smoke.
I am this point
now, forming
on the blankness,
a line
extending
into a glowing
red horizon.
No cube
can contain
me.
(Sept. 22, 2009)
By Justine C. Tajonera
Twelve and a half
years later
she packs away
books, certificates,
photos,
little mementos,
coffee mugs.
So many memories
flood the corners
of her office,
the halls.
She closes this
book
with so much
gratitude and
poignance.
There's no way
for her
to see it
from a
distance
now.
Tomorrow,
time will not
stop
for sure.
There is
something about
beginning
again
that makes
her heart
soar with
hope.
