the clouds
reach fingertips down
brush my cheek
as i wander
wonder
at the paintbox
feast
served up
as appetizer
for a main course
of grey
geese bleed through the fog
like ghosts
or mirage
circling the table
yet again
hungry always
for the flavor
of spring
.
.
.
The sky is angry again this morning and the dog tries to climb onto my chest as I lie in bed listening to hail hit the windows.
I know the back entryway will flood for the second time this week, just as I knew when I went to bed last night that I wouldn’t sleep for the third night in a row.
Everything in my house feels damp, including the sheets that wind themselves ’round my legs. It’s been one of those summers, but it seems they are all either too dry or too wet or too hot or too chilly. We want perfection from Mother Nature, and she simply refuses to live up to our standards. I love that about her.
Naughty Kitten went outside early, still-dark early, before the storm hit, and I don’t know where he found shelter. He has a secret life when he walks out the door, I don’t think he travels all that far, but he has hiding places I know nothing about, and I will let him keep it that way. He doesn’t mind getting wet in the rain, and he’s not really afraid of thunderstorms. I love that about him.
It’s the end of another July, a memorable one marked by marriage. That day the weather was perfect, and for that I am grateful.
Water runs and there is never any stopping it. If you try, it finds a new path, around you or over you or under you or through you. Just like life.
My garden keeps growing, my face keeps aging, my fingers keep typing.
The sky is black to the east, but I know the sun can’t hide forever. It’s always out there, shining, burning itself up and out with no concern for those requiring its warmth. I kind of love that, too.
Between the trees, the clouds have formed their own horizon, just beneath a mirage of ocean.
If I liked the water better, I’d pretend to find a boat. But my feet travel best on land, gripping stone and root and hard-packed soil, always climbing.
Today, I thirst for nothing.
Water drips off leaves, and just in that moment before letting go, I see the world I live in.
I see it again in the puddle at my feet, smiling back up at me.
In the distance, I hear more thunder.
.
.
.
i stood in the sun
and watched a storm
circle north
around me
pulling clouds in directions
impossible to follow
thunder rolled beneath my feet
as i stood
still
planted in a world
refusing to acknowledge
bolts of lightning
ripping through the grey blue steel
of sky’s lost eye
there was no rainbow
but off in the distance
rain reached down
in gauzy
worn-through sheets
someone else’s
dirty laundry
left hung out
to rinse
dry
and petrify
.
.
.
i sit on this stump
in this bland
bullied field
and i wait
for
pink to perform
green to genuflect
turquoise to totem
violet to violence
red to rage
orange to oscillate
indigo to idle
my legs glare white
and the sun
whisper fingers
my ankles
telling secrets
in code
that can only
be read
by the light
of a fireflies’
dream
.
.
This was yesterday morning, and the blizzard had just started.
And a blizzard it was, nothing pretty about this storm, no gently falling snow, no winter wonderland, just crazy blasting wind, hard white pellets, dropping temperatures.
This morning it’s nine degrees. And this window feeder is buried in snow. This little chickadee was the last bird I saw there yesterday. After that, I hope he found a bit of shelter. Along with all his friends.
Later this morning, I’ll have to go out and start the clean up process, digging out, shoveling, clearing snow off the roof, which was already leaking when I got up. But first, I’ll feed the birds, the feathered warriors of winter. And I’ll tell them that tomorrow, it’s supposed to be in the high 40s again.
I’ll tell them that spring is working its way here, albeit slowly.
Hang on, Mr. Chickadee, hang on.
Mama’s coming.
listen
some days, that’s all i want
to say
listen
or show me
what’s in your
heart
beneath the stone
you’ve left unturned
tell me
how it feels
to be the seventh billion
snowflake
falling gently from a sky
made grey with uniquity
holding on
until you melt
raging into rivers
groaning with overflow
howling
losing voice and veracity
whisper-stamped and
season-dated
by a mouth
that’s always
open
.
listen
.
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.
.
.
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
remembrance
and we spring leaves
from gnarled fingertips
brushing tears from our cheeks
as we whisper dirty jokes
to the moon
.
.
.
.
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
echo
stretch behind me into eternity.
February’s mirror.
.
.
