that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Everything around me crackles with electricity.
January would be silent, except for your anger.

When the whole world is frozen,
even a white flower becomes prism.

Last night I held a piece of glass to the moon,
hoping for eclipse.
The dead of winter whispered giggles of mockery,
and I walked back inside, bruised
but never broken.

I keep reading about survival.
Already, we’ve forgotten so much.

It used to be that everything was relative,
but now, everything is virtual,
and you can’t fake the smell of narcissism.
(I meant to say narcissus.)

Our collective soul is starving,
and we feed it the new truth.

Suffering was always meant to save us,
and laughter is a sky
filled with birds.

they say lightning never strikes the same place twice
but what if white light wakes you up every morning
and sometimes it thunders in the dead cave of winter

but the moon
rises up through the trees
even when frozen

and silt settles on everything
after a flood
concealing what lies
beneath a smooth surface

and magic makes no sense
but neither does reality

the miracle is that any tree survives

holding out bare branches
in forever expectation
of life going on

just the way it does

even uprooted

even split wide open

even silenced by
a lack

of wind

.

.

.

.

listen

to the mockingbird

.

.

.

.

open

.

just like that

.

.

.