winter rides through
on a white
white
horse
promising mud and wet
ever afters
i stand in the rain
and the cold
runs rivulets
down the hollowed out
hollow
of my back
arching
with forgotten
electricity
as i grow a mask
(transparent carapace)
made from sky and hours
and the fallen echo
sound
of grey hooves
.
.
.
in a wedding dress frayed
by the rust of time and
the things
you could never give up
.
i offer you
a window
an ear
this year
but i know you want
cake
and the taste of
love’s sugar
.
and your body
keeps telling
your story
betraying your hunger
with the constant motion
of silent
antagonized
lips
.
.
.
.
the way a tree holds up time for everyone to see
.
i ran on the side of the road to a place i can’t get back to
a stranger asked if i was lost
and i wondered how he knew
.
peace is always an illusion when the default is chaos
.
the red-winged blackbird wears his heart on his sleeve
and i follow his lead
.
regret is the stepping stone of forward
.
crooked is the path that gets you there
.
.
.
.
at the root of existence
we choose to grow and then
wither
bend and bow
curve and carry
reach and
reminisce
.
at night the bloom closes
protecting center from darkness
and fragile from star
.
days run together
with the laughter of sympathy
.
what we’ve learned
earned
burned
is eternally
shed
.
.
.
.
The light is changing and the days run a few minutes longer and I tell myself this will be the year I get over February. (Though I say that every year and it has yet to actually happen.)
Last night I finished the afghan I started 6 or 8 years ago (so along ago that I can’t remember which) and I thought that perhaps this will be the year of finishing. Or maybe rather than thought, I hoped.
Listening and finishing. The map of 2016.
Of course, like all maps, there is a certain margin for error and I have factored in lots of room to get lost. And I know there will be times when I choose not to use that map at all, because I don’t always like to know where I’m going, I’d rather drift and explore.
I read this article and suddenly felt right at home in my mind. Vindicated in some small way. Okay, it may have been a big way. Whatever.
It was an answer. An answer to why I always, always, always prefer the questions. Which is a funny concept all on its own.
The other day I wondered why we’re all so obsessed with happiness. I wondered if that’s even true. I wondered if I want to be happy, and decided yes, but not all the time. I’d prefer to be okay with being sad or angry or bored or irritated or content or confused, too. I’d prefer to experience all of it.
I walked out to get the mail and the sun was shining and the sky was clear and not-so-winter blue and for a second, I felt pure joy. At simply being alive and outside with the sun on my face. I remembered then how much I need to be out of doors. Winter always makes me forget.
Doors. An endless source for metaphors.
I miss color. Even my face is white and pale. I miss my freckles. (Okay maybe they are age spots, but I’m choosing to call them freckles.) I miss the daily drama of my garden.
Everything is shifting, all the time. And then resettling. Shifting again. There is no solid ground.
In spring I will trim away the dead wood. Toss it in a big pile and start a fire.
Which will remind me of winter.
And so it goes.
.
.
.
carried high above the sea of sky
(to keep from drowning, of course)
brittle fragile biting hiding
beauty
in a storm of hollow
promise
.
.
.
in a world of too much and
never enough
and tiny lives
bleeding hearts
doors that open
before they close
window views and
widow’s walks
and the quiet violence
of bloom
.
.
.
Lately, I think about listening. How bad we are at it, how everything keeps getting louder, how we talk over each other, and even, ourselves.
We’ve forgotten how to be alone with silence.
We have so many things to do, so many places to be, so many lives to fit into life.
I spend time with my 89-year-old friend and everything slows down. She doesn’t hear so well, and our communication becomes a pantomime of gesture and shouting. I spend time with my 8-month-old granddaughter and see the world with fresh eyes. Everything is new and exciting and wondrous. Everything slows down further, because we have to take time to relish each new moment and every fresh discovery.
In both cases, I find myself listening in new ways.
At night I read, turn the ever-present television off, and fall into stories. My house whispers its own secrets and my mind takes off in new directions.
I try to think of the last time I did nothing, and can’t remember. I’m always looking for something: entertainment or enrichment or connection or experience.
I crave silence, but when I find it, I fill the air with sound.
I want to remember something, the feel of roots or earth or security. And promises.
I build fires to conquer the cold and my need for something primal.
Even the darkest of months offers sympathy.
A heartbeat is the sound of existence. A symphony of seduction. A sonata of solace.
I find myself straining to hear.
.
Listen.
.
.
.
.
and we bask in the silence of solitude
birds and branches
sky and ice
that gate that holds nothing
in
.
.
.
