WHERE SPIRITS BREATHE by Donna Fitzgerald

Keep in mind bowls of blueberries,

mornings of transition—

a yellow kitchen

seeping its stains through paneled walls

all the way outside

finding their way inside the pines

those parental arms that embraced this place we chose.

When we first moved here,

I would pose on the blue couch

that faced the picture window;

it moved me beyond the green

all the way inside the moist of the forest

to its deep centers

above the green

to the blue

where I could hover--

and let my spirit breathe for the first time.

I could hear the Sinatra records from there;

I could just stay there

where spirits breathe.

The night we blessed this house

we filled a wedding glass with wine

and drank a toast to the place--

and then

naked and animal

exploded into the night

jumping into the arms of every tree on the property—

as if they were indeed our long forgotten parents.

Then all too soon

came a time of broken cars,

unremarkable evenings:

a bread board thrown through a plate glass window

months without a smile.

One day soon

I will pose again on a blue couch

with a dish of blueberries

and move once more beyond the green

into a blue

where saxophones and Sinatra sing,

where spirits breathe.