.
feather and rock
needle and stone
leaf and boulder
.
tree tall
and night fall
.
debris and detritus
claiming space
the shape of beauty
.
wind blown
and heart thrown
.
spinning spinning
in the grey pirouette
of hope’s abandon
.
but that’s not to say
death isn’t final
and the gold ring on my finger
isn’t valuable
or that some days my eyes aren’t
more emerald than olive
i refuse to be bitter
yet sit here
sipping vinegar
singsonging my way
through another day
of valiant questions and
i’m certain i was meant to be a tree
nothing feeds me like sky
birds are my shelter and
i need roots to hold me
still
even as i crave wind in my hair
and words on my skin
crawling clawing genuflecting
on a surface of no definition
bent broken akimbo
lackadaisical limbs
circling stars in a pattern
of pretty
tracing sibilance
with long bony fingers
through the avarice
of dark’s last answer
.
.
.
.
where there
is smoke
there is fire
.
but there
could also
be ice
.
you can’t
always tell
the truth
just by looking
.
sometimes
you need
to listen
.
i want to live
in the sky-ceilinged
shadows
.
wood nymph
flower girl
gatherer
.
resisting hope
is hopeless
while
everything grows
amidst decay
.
seeds and leaves
on the floor
of survival
.
i am this tree
that bird
those spiny cones
.
the light
reminds me
of everything
.
this moon keeps showing up everywhere I turn
in my words, my bedroom window,
the music that plays through my dreams
on a good day, i pretend that this means something
a sign of some connection or some secret
between mother nature and myself
on a bad day, i think it means i am obsessed
with things that don’t exist
and just like the gravity that holds me down
there is nothing to be seen but consequence
we don’t float away and therefore, gravity exists
we don’t see a hole in the sky and therefore,
the moon is made of cheese or stardust
or some old man’s twisted smile
i don’t want to hold hands with either
i just want to look up and be glad that magic exists
i want to walk off the edge of a cliff and know that I will fall
but there is no correct answer
your moon is the same as mine and the same
force keeps us earthbound
oh, i know you’d like to offer your own interpretation
you dance and i fly and we pretend again and again
that this is something other than science
and in the end what keeps us grounded
is not the dinners and the datebooks and the deadlines
but the final knowledge that we cannot hide from the moon
nor can we float out into space to offer up a kiss
she will always be there, longer and older and
higher than any one of us or all of us together
at night the tides she pulls run crazy through my body
over shores i cannot cover or expose
she is adversary’s ancient echo
drawing us in and under and over ourselves
nothing trite or romantic or representative
of anything other than existence
the cold hard truth hides in all of us,
lit up and made golden by a sun who knows
little more than violence
this moon is anti matter that matters
more than she will show
rhythm and bone
in sky’s last cradle
hollow heart rocking
to and fro
This was my view last Saturday. The tiny slice of lake we could see through the trees from our cabin, covered in a fabulous morning mist. It was one of the best fall-weather days we’ve ever had in the mountains.
Today I am back in my studio, the view ever-familiar, monkshood, hydrangea, and anemone still competing for attention. There is still green to be seen, though browns and grey have begun their slow creep across the landscape. A confused bachelor’s button has sprung up recently and begun to bloom, just below my window.
Last night, the Hunter’s Moon. Huge and round and refusing to be shadowed by earth. Black sky and golden light, twinkling stars and crisp air that smells of autumn. Every time I walk outside I find myself drawing in a huge breath, trying to capture the scent of another season.
Trying, perhaps, to capture all this color, and hold it deep inside so that I might pull out its memory in the grey months ahead. This was all Mother Nature’s idea, you know, to paint the landscape with extra vibrancy in autumn so that we might have that extra quilt to pull up around our shoulders when Old Man Winter comes to stay.
Also last night, the first indoor fire of the season. Books and knitting and wool socks and this ceiling that hems me in just a bit too much.
But I have a good imagination and if I close my eyes, I can always find Orion, waving down at my gypsy spirit.
Holding a place for me outside, beneath my favorite sky.
water baby
fire girl
the way we fight until
you’ve boiled and i
am smoke and whisper
but that is never
the whole story
this lake is girdled
by fire
warming your center
scorching your shore
and there are times i need
to cool my toes
even as my fingers ruffle
the surface of your silence
we are held together by need
i may rage and you may rise
until we cancel each other out
build a dam and i
will burn you
cross the river
and smother my pride
a forest is built
on ancient couplings
there is no fresh start
blank slate
empty hollow
these seeds were sown
long before we came scrambling
to the surface
birthing tomorrows
blaring tenacity
twins of manifest survival
fueled by oxygen
and undertow
.
.
.
.
I’m off my game lately. Fighting off some sort of illness, complete with dizziness and vertigo, while also trying to function enough to get my work done. My routines are all off, my habits have been altered, my energy is low.
I remind myself, again and again, that this will pass.
Five minutes after this glorious sunset, the sky was dark. Twelve hours later, it was light again. Sunrise, sunset. And back again.
I was still in my studio working when my husband called me out to see the view last night. Perhaps he knew that I needed a break, (and a photo for today’s post). My dog sat in the front yard as I took pictures of the sky, probably wondering why.
Sometimes life is a struggle. A beautiful, messy, blazing struggle.
It’s a good thing we have glorious sunsets to distract us, remind us, soothe us.
The air outside smells of autumn. Gaggles of geese are making their way to warmer places.
Even when I feel like I am standing still, the world moves on around me. At least I am getting lots of reading time.
It seems October’s clouds have a golden lining.
