“Journey into Spirit”

JOURNEY INTO SPIRIT

Sarah leaned into the sheep’s pelt, the warmth of its  embrace welcome this early hour drive to the Meeting. Three year old Lukas slept on a pelt of his own in the wagon. Sarah glanced back at her only child. What a blessing 1740 had been.

This spring of 1743 was still too tender to trust. The bitter cold of the winter challenged even faith. She felt herself grow fallow, retreat into pale days, where a ray of light would cast stark upon the walls of deep winter.

She was a living ghost roaming her cold house.

Except for last night.

Jacob, her sturdy, broad shouldered Jacob, kissed her goodnight and ignited a fire. Too cold to indulge in such things, but there was the running of the brook now, and Sarah could feel it in her body.

A quickening of life all around, even the air smelled faintly fertile.

It was a promise to come.

Jacob had pulled her atop him, his large hands cupping her breasts, his cock swelling, she squeezing her thighs, head thrown back with a banshee wail.

Sarah smiled. A bit more of that and lambing time next year would bring baby Leah.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted 2009

New Tanka of this morning….

TANKA WHILE WALKING, November 2008

Like the lithe bowing
Of a red maple sapling
My heart turns to you,
Yearns for those nights long ago
When pale skin challenged the moon.

Come into my arms.
Bury under the warm quilt.
Your scent makes me drunk
Like the wine we gulped last night.
Too much lust and drink to think.

So much bitterness
Between two who lusted deeply.
What happened to love?
One word could change night to day.
One word could unbind my soul!

I walked a landscape
Unfamiliar to my mind.
The only sound heard
Was the tinkling of bells
Then silence covered like snow.

I look up at blue
Sky this morning, watch leaves fall-
Whirling, colored tears.
Clip my face like dull razors,
The strokings of memory.

Is the whistling
Of the wind- a train, a plane?
Nature plays fiddle
And our senses are confused,
We dwell in chicanery!

Overhead, the cranes,
Sandhills, swirl in board circles.
Broken GPS?
No matter, their cries fall down
Celestial chiding rain.
Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008