that's mrs. mediocrity to you

they dressed her in an avalanche of neutral
andrew wyeth beige and winslow homer grey
winter sunrise and stormy mountain

forced her arms into deep black holes
wrapped her in yards of starless night sky
tied neatly with ribbons of pavement

her crown of thorns was a veil of apathy
covering over emerald eyes and hiding ruby lips
and her tall boots were caked
with cement

as if the sky could ever be tethered
as if a heart could be covered in silence
as if the hem of her crazy quilt skirt
wouldn’t always find a way to show through

no matter how they tried
her name was color

azure lavender
blue chartreuse
forest crimson

her mind was a hurricane of freedom
born again every third sunrise
with a litany of o’keeffe orange
and pollock purple

bleeding out from the tear
in her side

a permanent fountain
of dye

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a mistake of a photo

malfunctioning focus

so exactly

spot on.

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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.

the importance of numbers is self-prescribed

time

weight

date

expiration

days add up to life

lives add up to minutes

the flower

knows

when to bloom

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Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Poetics, where we are
playing with macro photography/micro poetry. Join us!

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It felt like a long ago dream,
that moment in the sun when everything changed.

She remembered the crow cawing loudly overhead, a warning.

She remembered the smell of smoke and the neighbor’s cries,
the damp earth beneath her back,
soaking up the sweat that ran from her body.

Forever stretched all the way up,
touching the cloud of regrettable sky.

She closed her eyes and saw red.

She opened them and saw nothing.

Silence was everywhere in the air around her,
and she held still, so still, trying to listen.

Beside her, a green shoot pushed up through the earth,
a feather tickle to the back of a dark-spotted hand.

A smile flew fast from her mouth, a strong white swift,
and carried old laughter away on the breeze.

The fleeting shadow of yesterday crossed her face,
just once.

And tomorrow became eternity’s muse,
dancing softly and praying for rain.

shadow shard and hollow reflection
dripping sweet song pattern and
endless playback

locked in a house of mirrors
where the laughter
bouncing
from room to room
belongs to no one

and dawn reveals the skeleton
inside the jar of syrup

all the pieces are there
and you can spend three months
striving to fit them back together

or you can leave them
dancing in the light of day

as long as you remember
to watch your step each night

because fool’s gold
puddles in your footprints

leading the way
to the door

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

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listen

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so nice to see you could make it.

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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.

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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

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Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Open Link Night, join us!

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