Waving Curtains

First time to move away from home.
Not a good living arrangement,
but some place to stay.
A singlewide mobile home.
Wagon Wheel Trailer Park.
Doña Ana road.

Quiet, sitting in a corner chair,
in the living room
by a window,
double pane slid upward.
Pleasant, cool breeze blowing
through the screen,
blowing a thin, lacy white curtain
in front of my face.

In a void, a trance,
allowing the curtains to wave
over my head,
tickle my ears, neck and shoulders.
I think this happened
before -- déjà vu.

The wind, carrying me
through a mysterious dimension.
I waver between
worth and worthlessness.
Curtains stop waving,
snap out of the spell.
Why do these things happen
when I am alone?

Guardian Angel

© 2008 photo and poem by Sue Miller

A friend crafted and gave me an angel,
made of gold foil wings, long blue
and white broomstick bandana skirt tied
at the waist, pea-sized pink and red bouquet
glued at the end of a twisted Tyvec arm,
a wooden ball for a head, rosy cheeks
on her light pine face, painted eyes
and an "L" for a nose, light curly blonde
bundle of hair with flair, yellow
garland for her miniature corona.

I have her suspended on a hook
by my turquoise door. I believe
she protects me from intruders
when I am asleep at night.
I believe she guards my apartment
while I am gone, repels
bad spirits with her other hand,
reassures me that things are fine,
gives me strength and faith to live

when I'm feeling tired or less worthy.