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Robin Jackson Pearson

About this Christian Poet:
I live in Austin, Texas with my husband of nearly 10 years and our four (homeschooled) children, ages 1 through 8.

Hide and Seek
   a riddle

No map reveals her address.
She squats as a rentless tenant:
elusive, unlisted.

I pursue haphazard through
the hidden walls of labyrinthine thought.

In my own numbered house, I study
plaster-plain white walls adorned
with sunbright snapshots of my children.
She is not there.
She never poses for pictures.

I long to catch her unaware, to visit her at home
(I imagine her home quaint as an antique dollhouse).
I must find her there,
in the place where poetry lives.

I imagine her quaint as a mopsy little girl,
pensive with her inscrutable, dark eyes.
Who knows what those eyes look for,
closer to earth as they are?

Does she find shelter in the leafy, shrubbish caves,
each embracing its own numbered house,
on Elgin Street?
She certainly haunts the named streets, even
the enumerated days escaping from my kitchen calendar.

In the brief emancipation of one present minute
(this very minute, for example)
I play peekaboo with words. She hides, I seek.

Yesterday she winked through the glimmer
of my daughterís red hair; darting upward, she
soared aloft on the apricot-scented air as I walked,
holding hands with my four-year-old firstborn son, as I walked
through another mysterious trapdoor to the day
my own girlish hair glimmered red as I walked,
a four-year-old firstborn daughter, I walked
holding hands with my mother,
intoxicated with the rapturous scent of apricots.

My titian-crowned daughter Evangeline danced alongside,
much as she used to dance before,
sacredly mute as the moral of a poem,
in the holy sanctuary of my honored womb.

I knew we were in the neighborhood
near the place where poetry lives.

When I am old, Evangeline Grace, I plan to paint
the institutional plaster-plain walls
brilliant as your lively head.

When you visit me there, ignore the ostensibly sterile whiteness.
Read the aged parchment of my wrinkled, literary skin;
study my senile, wizened eyes.

Know (in the brief emancipation of that one minute)
that you have found her place,
the place where poetry lives:
quaint as an antique dollhouse
within the shrubbish cave
at the labyrinthine center
of an old womanís mind.

Copyright©2004 by Robin Jackson Pearson