these days
my time is turned
paying tribute
to lives lost
or never realized
dreams
a heart wove
as you
shoveled sand
into hourglass
of promise
and empty
all the while
pretending
not to notice
the mountain
you were melting
and mostly
it’s all just air
resting ripe in a bowl
far too damaged
for kintsugi
rift-silent and
hover proud
waiting
[still]
and open
always open
for repair
.
.
i’ve got all these pieces
shard sharp and jagged edged
heart blood dark
and silence hole
splayed across
this worn wood floor
tracing steps and trapped pretension
as it all rolls uphill
sideways
mirror mirror
pasted smile
fallen glimpses in the corner of reflection
shape shifting
loose oil carnage
and the dream I had
before
our room filled with smoke
my mind-body
shaking us both awake
certain there was fire
i still see the haze each midnight
floating right
above the quilt
i bought
to shelter the you
(or me)
i can never quite
remember
.
stand tall in the light
of your own deliverance
bury nothing
but roots
grow rings
of truth
spin buds
of grace
and wait
time will spin
your story
into fresh green
dappled
shade
i revisit your funeral
in a dream filled with rooms
paint my face crackle-grey
and watch the pink of my tourmaline ring
wash away
every so often
i think i see you
still
every so often
you’re choosing a can of peas
or bringing the cat
you never had in for fleas
and as long as i don’t look
directly at you
i’m certain you’re
saying
i’m game
none of us are free
we all come at great cost
to ourselves
to others
to this bold green earth
to those we love
and those we hate
to those
we cannot know
own yourself
pay the price of reflection
add loose change
to the plate of collection
pick up your actions
hold them high
look deeper
examine
have the good guts
to stare yourself
in the eye
have the true grace
to accept
all consequences
own yourself
none of us
are free
the sun is shining just now, but it’s so cold.
the snow is glittering with that false, enticing promise.
beautiful to look at, brutal to hold.
and now i’m thinking of you again.
it’s a vicious circle-cycle.
life and loss and the truth of living.
survival of the fittest.
survival.
of.
we all have our own sky.
the second poplar tree in the front yard is dying.
it lost its mate a few years back, and being the romantic that i am, when it started dying from the top down, i decided it must have a broken heart. ha. then again, perhaps i’m right.
i have to figure out what to do about it this year, how to afford to cut it down, if i can bear to cut it down, the hole it will leave in my view (and my heart) when it is gone. how much i will miss the sound of poplar leaves rustling through the darkest hours of long summer nights.
it will mark another ending, in this winter filled with endings i have not yet learned to process. all part of the same era, the same time-vine of hope. i planted those two poplars when i first started my garden. i planted my garden when i first started my marriage.
and now i am surrounded by empty spaces, dying graces, loaded places.
there is so much to say and nothing to be told.
so much to grieve and nothing real to bury.
so much to carry and nothing left to hold.
my truth is a dark burden, and in the silent hours of night, i sit by my window and watch those bare dead branches pierce the sky.
the gap its absence will leave on my horizon is too difficult to consider just now.
i’ll deal with it this summer.
. . .
there’s another tree in my front yard, a young river birch with its own painful story.
last summer, i actually thought about killing it. of course, i didn’t. i couldn’t. i wouldn’t.
after that, i thought about moving it, to somewhere out of sight from that same window.
i didn’t do that, either.
i decided, in the end, to watch it grow. it has three trunks. i have three children, three grandbabies. we all have roots here.
it doesn’t even begin to fill the sky yet, or close the hole in my horizon, but i’ve re-framed its significance in the window of my existence.
one day, it will offer shade to this tiny house still filled with love. in the fall, i’ll watch yellow leaves drop down through the night and think how often we all begin again. each morning, each month, each year.
the seasons have always marked my cadence.
i’m looking forward to the spring.
keeps playing through my head and
i walk my way through
this melody of motion
stay busy stay busy stay busy
stop, drop, and roll
lay on the floor crucifix-style
stare at the sky/ceiling/sky
a bit longer
strangely, the race feels over. life has slowed to its essence:
breathe and begin, breathe and begin.
the floor, the ground, the hollowed out place where a heart used to be,
these are my constant companions, and i adore them for their loyalty.
(just as i adore the beautiful souls who stand beside me through my trial)
circles circling and life living and hearts bleeding/breaking/beating
just as they always have.
last night, in a dream, i heard rapping on my window.
hard, insistent,
and i thought it was you.
or the moon.
it doesn’t matter which, really.
the sky was filled with clouds
and lost coyote screams
and i felt no fear,
nor did i part
the thin white curtain.
for you have no face and i, no mystery.
just this silence
filling cracks
with bits of blue.
into the bedroom
burrow deep into a dream
reminisce with my lost dark side
build long bridges to the past
wander boldly through a labyrinth
of strange rooms
i may redecorate
one corner of my psyche
add some art, fresh journals,
a book on the sibilance of silence
paint a sunrise in each window
moon hung high upon one wall
weave flowers through each door frame
music breathing from the floor
fix tea and toast and nectarines
for every endless meal
watch swallows flitting in and out
bits of sky caught in their tails
think i’ll move
into the bedroom
burrow deep
into a dream
float through brief moments of survival
built on colors from a stream
::
