that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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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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whether it arrives head on

in a line straight as time

or comes at you

from all directions

curving gently around each bend

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bask in the glow

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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.

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we do this dance round the kitchen

bouncing off each other like pinballs in a space too small
for one communicating in a language evolved from grunts
and sighs and a pat on the leg that means: excuse me

our life grows from this place and there are always flowers
purchased with food because they offer the same slow
sustenance and this one tiny window does not

reveal as much as it keeps the light out behind
curtain wall curtain and there’s no room for waltzing
but we make do and break our bread in the silence

that falls between now and forever even though
you never like what i cook and i never eat what i
like we never go hungry or further than the living

room with its fire our food a dark chocolate finale
as dishes pile up in the corner crooning leftover notes
of consumption and waiting to be washed while we

do this dance round the kitchen

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make your own:
light
love
wings
magic
hunger
dreams
darkness
season
power
fire
mittens

It’s been a week of up before dawn and in bed long after dusk. A week of work and work and work and taking care of the business of life. A week much like any other when it comes right down to it.

Winter holds us in its darkness, frigid cold, frozen. We build fires and bundle up and complain. Being able to complain is the blessing, though one that hides itself in bitter words and false lament.

In between all this work and this complaining and this living, I write.

Like a fool that cannot stop herself, I give up sleep and precious hours in exchange for words. Words that slide from my fingers just as clearly as if they’d been spoken.

Words that light up the night, keep me company, guide me along the dark corridor of February.

That’s what writing always is, isn’t it? A shot in the dark.

And you never stop being afraid that you’ll miss, or even worse, you’ll hit an artery, a vital organ.

But laying down your weapon is never an option. Surrender only comes when the words have filled the page.

And there is always another page, always words pressing down on some inner, bleeding wound. The perfect bandage.

It’s cold and it’s dark and I let the words flow. Even when I’m not writing, they course through my mind in tune with the beat of my heart.

My telltale heart. Always, I let it speak.

I listen to the whispers.

You never know what ghosts they will reveal.

is always temporary

like the darkness
you’ve learned
to forgive

dawn is never your saviour
but almost enough
to make you
believe

clean is a fresh white cover
despite the mud
crawling through
what lies beneath

a map of every step
you’ve ever taken

you could be followed

you cannot wash yourself in crystal

you never were pure

this is the way you will melt

a pool of poison
sifting merriment
from bones

this soil contains us

eternity’s sacred measure

gravity’s compression

gleaning diamonds
to atone

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

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at this time of year, seeing the sun is an event

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let’s call this one

blue jay heaven

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