that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Everything in life feels off center and crooked. Odd angles jutting here and there through a forest of misguided direction.

Of course, you can’t see the big picture when you hover so low to the ground. Too many shadows, obstacles, possibilities.

Rise above.

Rise above.

Look down at yourself and laugh at how tiny it all becomes.

Soar higher, until all detail is lost. Until there’s just a quiet quilt far beneath you, waiting to cushion your landing.

Don’t land until you have to. Tail wind, tailspin, kite flyer.

Holding on to air is just as difficult as clinging to nobody’s hand.

Don’t let go.

Coast.

Dive.

Coast again.

You are the compass in an ocean of sunlight. Your shadow points in every direction.

Light, dark, light, dark through a checkerboard of miles.

Pack lightly. Travel far.

Circle back.

Begin again.

Remember.

december colors

wrapped in august light

the softest of shadows

in a promise of night

.

november’s first wind

stripping leaves from tall trees

in a violent flurry

of release

.

there’s still time to join in, details here.

.

feather and rock

needle and stone

leaf and boulder

.

tree tall

and night fall

.

debris and detritus

claiming space

the shape of beauty

.

wind blown

and heart thrown

.

spinning spinning

in the grey pirouette

of hope’s abandon

.

but that’s not to say
death isn’t final

and the gold ring on my finger
isn’t valuable

or that some days my eyes aren’t
more emerald than olive

i refuse to be bitter
yet sit here
sipping vinegar

singsonging my way
through another day
of valiant questions and

i’m certain i was meant to be a tree
nothing feeds me like sky

birds are my shelter and
i need roots to hold me

still

even as i crave wind in my hair
and words on my skin

crawling clawing genuflecting
on a surface of no definition

bent broken akimbo
lackadaisical limbs

circling stars in a pattern
of pretty

tracing sibilance
with long bony fingers

through the avarice
of dark’s last answer

.

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night – join us!

where there

is smoke

there is fire

.

but there

could also

be ice

.

you can’t

always tell

the truth

just by looking

.

sometimes

you need

to listen

.

i want to live

in the sky-ceilinged

shadows

.

wood nymph

flower girl

gatherer

.

resisting hope

is hopeless

while

everything grows

amidst decay

.

seeds and leaves

on the floor

of survival

.

i am this tree

that bird

those spiny cones

.

the light

reminds me

of everything

.

this moon keeps showing up everywhere I turn
in my words, my bedroom window,
the music that plays through my dreams

on a good day, i pretend that this means something
a sign of some connection or some secret
between mother nature and myself

on a bad day, i think it means i am obsessed
with things that don’t exist
and just like the gravity that holds me down
there is nothing to be seen but consequence

we don’t float away and therefore, gravity exists
we don’t see a hole in the sky and therefore,
the moon is made of cheese or stardust
or some old man’s twisted smile

i don’t want to hold hands with either
i just want to look up and be glad that magic exists
i want to walk off the edge of a cliff and know that I will fall

but there is no correct answer
your moon is the same as mine and the same
force keeps us earthbound

oh, i know you’d like to offer your own interpretation
you dance and i fly and we pretend again and again
that this is something other than science

and in the end what keeps us grounded
is not the dinners and the datebooks and the deadlines
but the final knowledge that we cannot hide from the moon
nor can we float out into space to offer up a kiss

she will always be there, longer and older and
higher than any one of us or all of us together
at night the tides she pulls run crazy through my body
over shores i cannot cover or expose

she is adversary’s ancient echo
drawing us in and under and over ourselves
nothing trite or romantic or representative
of anything other than existence

the cold hard truth hides in all of us,
lit up and made golden by a sun who knows
little more than violence

this moon is anti matter that matters
more than she will show

rhythm and bone
in sky’s last cradle
hollow heart rocking
to and fro

This was my view last Saturday. The tiny slice of lake we could see through the trees from our cabin, covered in a fabulous morning mist. It was one of the best fall-weather days we’ve ever had in the mountains.

Today I am back in my studio, the view ever-familiar, monkshood, hydrangea, and anemone still competing for attention. There is still green to be seen, though browns and grey have begun their slow creep across the landscape. A confused bachelor’s button has sprung up recently and begun to bloom, just below my window.

Last night, the Hunter’s Moon. Huge and round and refusing to be shadowed by earth. Black sky and golden light, twinkling stars and crisp air that smells of autumn. Every time I walk outside I find myself drawing in a huge breath, trying to capture the scent of another season.

Trying, perhaps, to capture all this color, and hold it deep inside so that I might pull out its memory in the grey months ahead. This was all Mother Nature’s idea, you know, to paint the landscape with extra vibrancy in autumn so that we might have that extra quilt to pull up around our shoulders when Old Man Winter comes to stay.

Also last night, the first indoor fire of the season. Books and knitting and wool socks and this ceiling that hems me in just a bit too much.

But I have a good imagination and if I close my eyes, I can always find Orion, waving down at my gypsy spirit.

Holding a place for me outside, beneath my favorite sky.

.

i come to this place

for the silence

and i can’t stop

listening

.