Charlene is a prolific writer, having had not only her poetry previously published, but theater reviews and columns as well (many here in Turbula). She's contributed to everyone from Investor's Business Daily
to the La Jolla Village News
. She was also a contributor to "Chicken Soup for the Volunteer's Soul."
By Charlene Baldridge
The geranium rocks in its cradle
hoping to put itself beyond the confines of the porch,
to be inside the rain that falls in gloom-spreading sanctitude from the sky.
I, post-Christmas, am reminded of balmy days in Santa Clarita,
seated on the corner in a manufactured European village.
Architectural kitsch it may be, but the mood was festive,
and now in sodden San Diego one cannot help
indulging a bit of post-holiday dolor.
Even so, the thirsty plants are green,
reaching as they do not just for moisture but for the winter sun;
their hanging pots a-tilt, so heavy they've become on just one side.
To turn them would be cruelty.
Flesh yet, I am contained within my skin,
constrained from reaching;
nevertheless, I observe the sluicing rain.
Warm from the bath, I feel God's grace, sense the invisible sun.
Filled with hope and expectation even ambition for a New Year,
I am reminded, perhaps foolishly and vaingloriously,
there is a future.
I rise to grasp it.
December 28, 2004
Published September 2005