Feb 27 2014


I believe in spring flowers on the kitchen table.

I believe the moon knows all the world’s secrets,
and if you listen, she’ll whisper to you in your sleep.

I believe cardinals were sent to keep color alive during winter.

I believe ghosts are the physical manifestation of hope.

I believe gardens are the very same thing.

I believe there are 56 days in February,
but every calendar is missing a page.

I believe mountains are the keeper of silence.

I believe there are 9,837 different kinds of love,
each one a leaf on the deciduous tree of life.

I believe music is the wind, whispering through those leaves.

I believe in messes, beautiful, beautiful messes.

I believe snowflakes are the only form of perfection.

I believe light makes us grow, but darkness keeps us sane.

I believe forests remember
every person they’ve ever encountered.

I believe words are the oldest religion.

I believe north is the strongest direction.

I believe we are all in this together,
most especially those who stand alone.

I believe birds were the world’s first poets.

I believe in spring.



Feb 25 2014

baby, let me
follow you down

through taproot and tangled tributary
into the dark
cave hollow hole of fortitude
where you hold my broken
and i
offer crooked silence
as ancillary billet
while time marches down the skin
of our guarded intermingled spines
in the guise
of everlasting ants
heaving heavy minutes
on scarab-colored backs

at night
our sighs fill the sky
turning earth into petrified
and we spring leaves
from gnarled fingertips
brushing tears from our cheeks
as we whisper dirty jokes
to the moon




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Feb 22 2014


whether it arrives head on

in a line straight as time

or comes at you

from all directions

curving gently around each bend


bask in the glow




Feb 20 2014


My window to the world.

Yesterday, Pepe the quiet kitty sat on my bed all day and
watched icicles melt.

My dog, who usually spends the day next to Pepe,
spent the day in my studio instead, on the floor next to me.
He’s a scaredy-cat (dog?) and thought the sky was falling.

Truth is, it’s been falling all winter,
but it’s hard to explain the difference to a dog.

Just now, the sun is shining, though later,
it’s supposed to start raining, with a chance of flood.

I’m talking about the weather again.

I see my reflection
stretch behind me into eternity.

February’s mirror.



Feb 18 2014

because onions always
make me cry

we do this dance round the kitchen

bouncing off each other like pinballs in a space too small
for one communicating in a language evolved from grunts
and sighs and a pat on the leg that means: excuse me

our life grows from this place and there are always flowers
purchased with food because they offer the same slow
sustenance and this one tiny window does not

reveal as much as it keeps the light out behind
curtain wall curtain and there’s no room for waltzing
but we make do and break our bread in the silence

that falls between now and forever even though
you never like what i cook and i never eat what i
like we never go hungry or further than the living

room with its fire our food a dark chocolate finale
as dishes pile up in the corner crooning leftover notes
of consumption and waiting to be washed while we

do this dance round the kitchen



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Feb 15 2014


make your own:

Feb 13 2014

a shot in the dark

It’s been a week of up before dawn and in bed long after dusk. A week of work and work and work and taking care of the business of life. A week much like any other when it comes right down to it.

Winter holds us in its darkness, frigid cold, frozen. We build fires and bundle up and complain. Being able to complain is the blessing, though one that hides itself in bitter words and false lament.

In between all this work and this complaining and this living, I write.

Like a fool that cannot stop herself, I give up sleep and precious hours in exchange for words. Words that slide from my fingers just as clearly as if they’d been spoken.

Words that light up the night, keep me company, guide me along the dark corridor of February.

That’s what writing always is, isn’t it? A shot in the dark.

And you never stop being afraid that you’ll miss, or even worse, you’ll hit an artery, a vital organ.

But laying down your weapon is never an option. Surrender only comes when the words have filled the page.

And there is always another page, always words pressing down on some inner, bleeding wound. The perfect bandage.

It’s cold and it’s dark and I let the words flow. Even when I’m not writing, they course through my mind in tune with the beat of my heart.

My telltale heart. Always, I let it speak.

I listen to the whispers.

You never know what ghosts they will reveal.



Feb 11 2014

the weight of water

is always temporary

like the darkness
you’ve learned
to forgive

dawn is never your saviour
but almost enough
to make you

clean is a fresh white cover
despite the mud
crawling through
what lies beneath

a map of every step
you’ve ever taken

you could be followed

you cannot wash yourself in crystal

you never were pure

this is the way you will melt

a pool of poison
sifting merriment
from bones

this soil contains us

eternity’s sacred measure

gravity’s compression

gleaning diamonds
to atone



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Feb 8 2014

little darling


at this time of year, seeing the sun is an event


let’s call this one

blue jay heaven



Feb 6 2014

it just keeps snowing and
mother nature baked a cake

And February is always the longest month, no matter what the calendar says.

But this morning the sun is shining and the snow is sparkling and it’s hard to be mad at her, this second-month girl, as she flirts with dawn and begs to be scolded.

When there is nothing to be done, the path of least resistance is acceptance.

And so, I accept.

I’m about to don my winter gear to go out and rake snow off the roof in the one spot that will always leak after a snowstorm no matter how many times we have it repaired.

While I’m out there, I will feed the birds, because seriously, would you want to be a bird if this was your playground? I’m sure that by now, the tall grasses have been stripped of all their seed, the black-eyed susan’s little brown heads have been picked clean, and the berries on the holly bush are just a memory.

But the sun is shining.

From my window I can see bits of snow glittering from the tops of those tall grasses, like diamonds.

Everything out there is dressed in black and white or gray, so apparently, this party is a formal affair. I’m almost afraid to crash it in my barn coat and purple wellies.

But, after all, I am just the gardener, and Mother Nature is the queen.

She would hardly expect me to show up in a dress.

All the same, I suppose I’ll have to bow and curtsy and comment on the decorations.

And if I’m lucky, later, I’ll be invited to stay for dessert.