Once, a girl who was green was lost in thought.
She did not willingly emerge from scribbling or sketching.
Her grades were OK. She played parts in school plays and she liked singing.
She didn’t drive but she was driven to pin down and tend lengthy reveries regarding highs and lows of her existence. She was simply a green shoot, aiming to connect with Real meaning and Good directions.
Once, a young wife who was blue was drowning, as if she wore cement boots, she was sinking.
Married to a commitment that reminded of roiling, debris-littered ocean deeps, she did slowly
Shake off cement impediments and nakedly paddle to the surface.
She paddled until she could see a glimmer on the horizon – although a seaweed veil fell into her eyes
Blurring the view, and scarves and ribbons of seaweed snaked around her extremities.
She pressed on, in many obscure years of paddling.
Once, a single mom who was the color of ashes and bark struggled.
Often she toiled, pulling twigs from her hair in an effort to be presentable.
She was a merry-go-round, wrapped in careening daybreaks and dusks, in showers of rain or snow.
At the end of every day, she trudged a solitary path through golden grasses up to her chin.
And this gold surrounded her and waved to her from remote margins of the marsh.
She held down jobs, repaired her cars, hugged her son and prayed for his safety and well-being
Until soon he was taller than she was – from very young he beat her at Go Fish.
His wins lightened her up and she might grin about them, washing clothes or digging for papers
In a metal filing cabinet, at work.
Once, a bobble-head crone, who did not call herself a crone, because it wasn’t That Bad –
Was mostly transparent, although she had a pink tinge,
Despite her stiff parts and tremors, she scribbled and sketched, but not daily – on lined paper or
Napkins or fluorescent post-its or her laptop.
Because Trying barged in on Living, she simply hugged the world, prayed for its safety and sanity,
She was a slowly spinning, bobbing cork, beyond her time of keeping cats or dogs now.
She composted and mulched devoutly, paid bills, observed headlines and holidays.
And this is her narrative and it is largely true.
She makes, unmakes, re-makes. She smooths and wrinkles.
Now, to this day, she is not alone or lonely or lost.
Thalia Doukas is a writer and visual artist in 2D and 3D. Long ago, her poetry was included in One Foot On the Mountain, a British anthology of feminist writers. Since then, she has earned a living as a print and online writer/editor/designer in a variety of settings. Her blog address is http://thaliadoukas.blogspot.com/. Her website is at http://tdoukas.zenfolio.com/