Calculations

34, 14, 1800, 2
Maybe these numbers mean nothing to you
The hairs on our heads are all numbered, 9, 3
Etched in my heart for eternity

The exchange

I asked God for a job
So I could feed my children
And God said, "Granted.

But in return, I will take away your ability to cook and bake
Deliciously.
Your gravy will be lumpy, your meat will be tough,
Your cookies will be burned on the edges,
And your pasta will cleave."
Then God turned into a coyote, howled at the moon, and disappeared.
And I was grateful.

To Brigid, Part 1

Inspired by the goddess of loving mystery, in whom three is one and four, and by whom fire is water is life for earth. I offer this poem to the lady of creativity, asking that (by the principles of trinity) it also conjure the strength of the smith and the healing of the physician.  Her nature is multiple meanings, and looking into the water at a reflection always shows another view of reality if we ask for eyes to see.

I feel that there will be more to this poem, which is why I call it Part 1, but this is all I have right now. Some words have multiple meanings.

I don't know how to let him go.
My heart was built to hold.
My facings, spirit, nature, pace —
a clasp, a sponge, a bowl

I do know how to fight my space,
To forge a boundary line,
When threats upon my home, my peace,
My Self, blur and bind.

Bound! Someone can be here, and not.
My sword is useless now.
Footprints, ghosts taunt, remain.
Unhold — I don't know how.