is the seed
you never saw
dropped by bird or breeze or
gnarled fingers
holding silent
in
the cold of dark
the dark of cold
the carapace
of old
tend the bloom
discard
decay
worship petal
over promise
the grey kitchen
sings in whispers
to the rainbow
of brevity
each flower is merely
the camouflage of purpose:
grow
continue
circle-cycle
rest in soil
the light was always
your beginning
…
in the crooked end
of a thunderous day
all these colors
marching cross the floor
in turncoat uniform
the way you meant to go
in dark straight lines
but the labyrinth picked you up
on tiny golden bird wings
dropped you down
into the well
of expectation
deliverance in perfect
pirouette form
spinning leaves and knitted landscape
into this holey shawl
of absolution
…
i refuse to say
hang in my heart
on bits
of knotted thread
and wrinkled ribbon
swaying
in a barely moving breeze
wrought
from distilled smile
and cornered
memory
the super sweet blueberries dropped into oatmeal
the smell of lilacs, just outside an open window
a new loaf of bread popped in the oven
a robin, a cardinal, a chickadee
a messy house, a messy garden, a messy life
in need of sorting, cleaning, scrubbing, tending
waiting to be torn from disarray
and pasted back in perfect place
as i sit here
contemplating nothing
sipping tea
and mostly,
smiling
.
.
.
i let the dog out
and the moon was singing
down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody
polaris twinkled
guiding each of us
home
.
.
.
because what choice do we have
and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat
and
some days
it’s fair to say
i’m tired.
part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young
and we’re all just
spinning
waiting
acting
watching
fighting
for
another
day
to stand
or soar
or sit with it all
once more
.
.
.
I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.
Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.
I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.
There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.
I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.
I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.
Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.
I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.
This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.
It doesn’t matter.
Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.
No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.
I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.
I trip over everything anyway.
It’s winter and I miss the sky.
The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.
On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.
.
.
.
i swallow purple and dream of bluebells
blanketing a field made of permanence
they put me under and i bleed in tandem
with color-blind heart
and restless fingers
tapping love songs to spiders
in starlit soliloquy
and we run
through red rivers
black oceans
dead forests
never out of breath
or short of currency
trailing ribbons
weaving knots
stitching sides
un
raveling
.
.
.
and the call of a sky turned crooked
on a day that grows dark like any other
the sun always rises
the sun always rises
the sun always rises
she hears the whispers in the leaves of the tall poplar trees
she has blisters from planting possibility
she is a storm raging gales of regret
she is silent and patient and sometimes
she bends
ever so slightly
towards a house
filled with reflection
and polished
glass
.
.
.
i’ve buried all the pieces no one ever gets to see
fickle fallow and everyday shallow
not enough coin inside oversized purse
cold confidence and chartreuse envy
and in between daisies
tiny fingers
of longing
in my garden i am always
over-exposed
and therefore
hidden
sun beat and wind burn
the torture of
bent back
long squat
digging
in the soil of silence
crows
are my charm
and for them
i leave glamour
gifts of
gilded bone and
beaded sinew
and we dance to the rhythm
of hidden heart broken start ritual
refusing to accept the blue bowl bright sky storm
raging just beneath the lost forget me not sea of invitation
.
.
.
.
