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 Scribe: Storyteller: Daughter
I have no children
But a child of the Divine
Walked up
And called
To my soul
“I'm collecting

All stories
Your stories,
My story,
Manea's Stories.

So we sit down
On Friday afternoons
And spin tales
From the day
From my jewelry
Like Nesting Dolls
I have stories
Inside of stories.

You see I've been
Waiting for her
Since I was 15,
& she's 18 now…
I called across
Time and the
River of souls,
Begged her to
Come & be here…
Because I will
Bear no children.

I have none who
Know my stories…
I had a husband once,
He's gone
I had a wife once,
She's gone,
And with them
Went the stories
I had with them,
New lovers often
Don't want to know
What came before them…

But my Scribe does.
Her soul is here
To collect our tales…
Perhaps yours,
And then it dawns
On me.

She is my daughter.
Not by blood,
But by spirit…
I have no family gathers where
Nieces & Nephews
Are subjected
To the telling
Of family tales.

She is collecting
My life,
One yarn at a time
Weaving a dreaming
Blanket to wrap
Humanity in
Once I am gone…

Tales of Blue,
My favorite color,
Royal & rich,
About my sadness,
The deep waters
Of my emotions,

Tales of Yellow,
Like smiley faces
And laughter,
The joy of which
Is the center of my soul.

Tales of Red,
Passion, Lust, Love
A sea of Beloveds,
Palates of artistic

Tales of Green,
The healing of my heart
The forests of my friends,
And how our roots
Entwine together.

Tales of Violet,
Royalest Purple…
The infinity of the Universe
And my Spirituality
The wise part
Of my being
Of the secrets
Of  the Ages.

More colors
Than Monet
And Picaso
More than
The Ravers
Have candy

Weaves them
I am sure
The Anasazi
Runs through
Her veins.

She is collecting
More than stories
She is collecting
My soul,
The thing that will
Make the Manea
Live on,
As children do…

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