backlit by storm
and the magic of timing
there is never a moment of silence
something somewhere
is always rumbling
and i learn to take peace
in the pauses
there is never a pillow
of sweet dreams
everafter
but rather
this reality
of storm and sunshine
creeping in
on stealthy paws
and we sit
together
stare each other
down
from the comfortable
distance
between us
.
.
.
thorn of light
thorn of bright
trapped
in the call
of a prussian
blue night
i am gypsy
i am queen
to the hounds
of hope unseen
slipping silent
racing whole
through a screen
of web retold
counting distance
and return
with an abacus
of learn
blood roses
blooming tight
on the skin
of my lost flight
.
.
.
and wishing for clarity
the kind that only comes
when you can’t see anything
a storm passes through
and the trees
bend to meet their maker
as water runs rivulet
to river
to wash away
a tyranny
of dust
and we must learn to beg
forgiveness
or perception
zig and zag
as we run free
in the silence
between raindrops
we must learn
to drop to our knees
genuflect and
bow in a prayer
of defect
broken limb and
scattered branch
the only clues
to guide us
through a cold-cracked sky
of false deliverance
.
.
.
purple is the shape
of letting go
and blue is the beginning
of sacrifice
all the scars and torn edges
faded blooms and broken stems
form the canvas of whole
and the soft brush of plenty
as gold fills every sky
with perseverance
.
.
.
and it’s the magic of twilight that draws me outside, down the hill to a swamp filled with peepers. some nights the sound roars through the darkness, and on those nights, it’s not that i can’t sleep, it’s just that i don’t want to. my primal memory wants to lie outside and count the starts into numbers too large to carry. my feet refuse to forget the sensation of walking. nothing is clear in the darkness, but everything shines, and until you’ve let the moon find your shadow, you’ve never once stood in real light. there are secrets out here, everywhere. the trees are always whispering. i want to walk into the forest and do nothing but listen. that’s where all the answers are, but we’ve forgotten how to hear them. lightning reminds us, but only for a moment. and thunder makes us forget yet again. i want to wash my hair in the rain and leaves my toes caked with mud. i want to run through the color of midnight.
.
.
.
days when i do nothing
but listen
moving my body in the rhythm
of nurture
i care for you and
together we grow
remembering the mirror
i’ve forgotten
wisdom matters less
than sun on skin
i break a bloom off
with one brown shoulder
a mistake to remind me
of gentle
and whisper my apology
to wind
.
.
.
i stood in the sun for three days once
singular and proud of my peacock pretty ordinance
and refused to marry the sky
growth was always my pattern
and bending
my habit
coy and shy
cut and displayed
thirsty and forgotten
i was always
about color
and you
stole my green
stripped my purple
and stomped my chartreuse back
into black and white
grey-lipped
soil
until i became
an abstract painting of perhaps
washed proud and stood clean
in the summer
of the river
of change
.
.
.
.
.
.
because shedding your skin
is just as necessary
as gathering hips
for the tea
you sip
from the cup
of yesterday’s
parody
.
.
.
and let the rain wash down
to the valley of drown
in an avalanche of
forgiveness
.
.
.
.
