is always drawn through tears
on the tails of falling stars
and just like the pleiades
cannot be seen
if you stare directly
but only exists
in the corner of your eye
or someone else’s
just a habit whisper
phantom ghost
heard only at midnight
and in the after echo
of the twelve stroke
dissonant chime
the silhouette
of negative space
is deafening
.
.
.
.
“If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that
love actually is all around.”
.
When I was younger, I would have snorted at that,
but I have come to believe that it’s true.
Love is so little of what we’re taught
in fairy tales and romantic novels.
Love isn’t found in a box of chocolates,
although, I do love chocolate.
Love is being there.
Listening.
Showing up, again and again.
Making coffee for him the night before,
every single day.
Filling the woodbox for her
because you know she loves the fire.
Holding each other up
when you’re both too tired to stand alone.
A pot of soup for your mom when she’s ill.
Teaching a child to read.
Opening the door for a stranger at the grocery store.
Returning the $20 bill the guy ahead of you just dropped.
Trying your best, always, to do the right thing.
.
I know that a lot of people aren’t fond of Valentines’ Day,
saying it feels forced and commercial and contrived.
And perhaps it is all those things.
But in a world filled with darkness and hatred and hardship,
a day to celebrate love feels like a good thing to me.
.
So Happy Valentine’s Day to all of you.
May you find love in tiny places
and kindness wherever you go.
.
And thank you, for coming here, for reading,
for the kindness and encouragement you’ve offered me.
.
And Happy Valentine’s Day to you,
International Man of Mystery,
because I don’t fall in love very often,
but when I do,
it’s with you.
.
.
.
life keeps raining down around me
even as i close my eyes in a vain attempt to hide
even as i refuse to see anything but beautiful
even as i say goodbye and goodbye and goodbye
and i listen to the music of the weather you
bring to me in a jar the color of sea
i listen to spring creeping in just beneath
winter’s worn grey tattered dress
i listen to the sound of
………….another year dying
………….another heart trying
………….another eye crying
my palms turned upward to catch diamond drops
………….and bits of glitter that will leave with the sun
there is more light than you can see
………….more hope than you can harness
………….more time than you can shelter
and there is less of you
………………..less of me
………………………….less of yesterday
in this puddle building up around my ankles
….this ocean of silence that roars in my ears
….this river that runs straight to the cave of your heart
….this avalanche that keeps raining down
……………………………..raining
………………………down
…………………around
……………………………..me
..
.
.
.
It’s beautiful outside just now.
Winter wonderland beautiful.
Snow angel, snowman, sledding, hot cocoa weather.
It will be a day of pretending we live in a snow globe
with books and a fire and a quiet dinner
and no world beyond the edge of the driveway.
Or, perhaps, we won’t be pretending.
There is no place to be but here.
.
Well, if I were February, it would be. Instead, I find color where I can, strewn about the house in bits of glass and fabric. Tulips from the grocery store. Eggs with a rainbow of peppers for breakfast.
Magic is the word I chose for 2013, reading is the word that’s chosen me. And everywhere I go, it’s quiet.
Our oldest cat is fading away and I watch her fighting. I think about life, and death, and everything in between. We make her a fire every night, and feed her all the tuna she wants, and give her lots of extra love.
The other night I broke out the afghan I’ve been working on for something like three years now… I only have a few rows to go, and it feels like it’s time to finally finish it.
Sometimes, endings come when you’re least expecting them. Sometimes, even though you know they are coming, it’s hard to look them in the eye.
The book I’m reading now is going to be hard to let go of. Fremont by Elizabeth Reeder. It’s filled with beginnings and magic and the trials of life. And, of course, endings.
And I’m in love with it.
This book. This grey sky, this grey cat, this life.
Every small, silent moment.
.
see, i told you:
you can only get lost
when you’re following
someone else’s map
why don’t you ever listen
and
i heard she took everything,
even the cat
the rest gets drowned out
by a splashing bus and
the slap in the face
of exhausted exhaust
.
when the light turns red
and the crowd surges forward
my tall boots refuse to carry on
and i stand there
anchored
by two tiny pieces of
strange stranger’s conversation
smiling because
i know exactly
what she meant
and a mewling kitten
is winding
infinity
around my warm and silent
ankles
.
.
..
.
It was a month of snow angels and outdoor picnics, getting things done and doing absolutely nothing, taking care of business and escaping into books. Red was the flavor, and quiet was the color. It was a month of letting life flow at its own pace, I didn’t fight any of it, never once did I swim against the current, I just let it carry me wherever it was headed. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, and it was good.
January was a month of settling in, to life at 50, to life in 2013, to life in a world we have yet to catch up with.
Soon, I suppose, busy will be stopping by for a visit, she never likes to stay away for long. I’ll make her some tea and we’ll sit for a chat and she’ll mention that she’s planning to stay for a spell. I won’t be surprised or upset, I will simply say yes and turn away to bake her some cookies. Snickerdoodles, in fact. Because you can’t say snickerdoodles without smiling, and besides, they are delicious.
But I can’t help but wish that January could stay just a little bit longer, so I could sit here and stare out this window at the birds, at all the wonder, at the dancing snowflakes that have just started to fall from the sky, despite the fact that just yesterday, the temperature peaked at 65.
I hear February tapping on the glass, too short to be seen, but just tall enough to reach a bony finger up and make her presence known. She likes to be all dark in her grey robes and bitter nights, but it’s hard to take someone so small very seriously. Still, I will sit with her tomorrow, build her a fire and bring her some flowers, just because she is here.
And I won’t tell her how much I miss January, for it would never do to make her jealous.
She has quite the temper, that one, don’t be fooled by the hearts and the chocolates.
But don’t worry, either, for she is no match for March and its promises of flowers.
