that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Last night the light was gorgeous.

Gorgeous enough to drag me up off the couch despite a migraine, gorgeous enough to warrant the real camera rather than the phone camera, gorgeous enough to bathe everything in beauty.

Today, I still have a migraine. I am behind in the work I need to get done this week, I am tired and my house is a mess.

There is always something that needs doing, always a reason to be here instead of there, always the feeling that the pile of sand in the bottom of the hourglass is larger than the pile of sand left at the top.

Last night, I didn’t care about any of that. Last night, I sat in the sun as it slowly drew long shadows over everything in sight.

I read and listened to birds, threw my head back and stared at the sky, inhaled crisp air just beginning to smell like autumn.

Life can seem so complicated. But really, it’s all so simple.

It’s all about the light.

ten eleven years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

I wrote this last year as the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event approached.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

as I watch quietly from my garden, alone, exhausted, content,

listening to the trill of cedar waxwing,

the sharp bark of tree frog,

the never-ending harmony of crickets.

it’s ever so much better

than silence.

::

what you see

is what you get

::

dawn is the ritual of future
pink promise potential
to bury beneath
the quilt of day

in the silence
your eyes are silhouettes
the deep of between
with a hint of purple

vines become shackles
as you scramble to the top
turning twisting twining
green ropes to hold you

up to the sun as you sing
your blues to an audience
of arbitrary fascination
spinning false tales

in the spotlight

of sound

.

.

.

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

the corn is thirsty

the farmers are hungry

vultures are sated

and herons

have moved on to greener pastures

i can’t see the beginning

or hear the end

i am cracked and bone dry brittle

i dance beneath the blue

of the somebody said so moon

i am alone but not at all lonely

i pitch a tent and

sit cross-legged in the dark

trees whisper of water

longing is an empty form of love

dehydration is the blind form of longing

and forty days would never be enough

to save us

from the landscape

of our lives

The swamp down the road from us has dried up on one side, leaving small puddles filled with frantic fish and no escape.

For the birds, herons and turkey vultures and seagulls alike, it is a smorgasbord.

For photographers, it has been a gift.

This is the second time in the past 10 years this has happened. Heat and drought adding up to evaporation.

The food chain forming its own long necklace of death, and life.

I walk down the road and watch it happen without knowing why. Herons by the handful when usually, seeing one is a gift. Vultures making beautiful tracks across the sky, too far away to reveal their own ugliness.

And all the while, little fish, swimming their way towards nowhere.

dawn rips the blindfold from my eyes
forcing me to watch another day

unravel

time slipping through stone and finger
with the same giggle of impermanence

whispers

to a heart that takes no prisoners
and a mind that gives everything

away

a broken belt lies on the floor
tanned flesh and silver buckle

remembering

smaller nights and sunshine’s warmth
and all of those tomorrows gathering

promise

and potential in dust-filled corners
stacked with empty broken boxes

waiting

.

.

.

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

::

half empty

always whole

::

half ghost, half zephyr

alight with silence

no compass necessary

carry me home