Some Mornings

by Justine C. Tajonera

Some mornings
are beautiful, suffused in
cool light,
white window curtains
rustling with wind
and the promise
of a brand new day.

Some mornings
are ugly, unbearably
bright and hot or
melancholy and
steel-gray cold,
killing any comfort
saved over
the night.

Does it matter
which one
I wake up to?

Each morning
I am born,
pulled out
from the womb
of dreaming,
facing another
series of conscious
hours,
choosing, each
time,
the quality
of the
light.

(March 23, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/emdot/3035769570/

The Code Of Dress

By Justine C. Tajonera

When I can wear anything,
I wear only one
thing.

My body has learned
to speak in codes
of comfort
and delight.

My toes have learned
to uncurl and
demand
freedom.

My heels, while rough
and worn,
have dug down,
close to the earth,
refusing to be put
on a pedestal.

My skin has learned
the subtleties of
temperature,
slowly warming up
or cooling down,
with not much need
for the artifice
of air conditioning.

When the rainbow
is presented
to this monarch,
she chooses
the simplicity of
denim
blues
and cotton
prints
and staple
unruffled
black.

I listen closely now
for freedom
has warranted
the absolutes
of choice.

(Dec. 22, 2009)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/brianteutsch/72243320/

At The Edge Of The Pool

By Justine C. Tajonera

My little swimmer
stands at the edge
of the pool.
He asks me to
move away,
sure in himself,
sure that he can
jump on his own.

My heart skips
a beat.
How can he be
so sure,
even as I stand
a little further
away?

I am a fallible
net,
inconstant, easily hurt,
a mixed bag
of emotions.
I am no
rock.

But his face
is full of light,
absolutely certain
of the comfort
of my arms,
whether I am near
or far.

I stand in
awe.

(Dec. 13, 2009)

Image from Freefoto.com

Comfort

By Justine C. Tajonera

Before he goes
to sleep,
my son pinches
his ear lobe
and it seems
that no harm
will come
to him.

Small gestures
from childhood
tide us through
the night.

Our grandest
ambitions,
our dreams
come true
will never
parallel the little
ecstasies
of innocence.

Our mothers'
wordless
nuzzles,
perhaps,
will greet us
in heaven.

(Nov. 28, 2009)