that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and deep dark
late night lists
of the ways we are all
just a little bit
broken

and the revelation
that all we can do
is open our arms
our minds
our fear closed
scared scarred
sacred
hearts

and face the sun

one more time
one more day
one more moment

today
today

today
and love

that’s
all there is

ever

not forever

just this
minefield mountain
of now

the present
of presence

and these shard blue
sheltering smithereens
of moving sky

…

the year I became
an old woman

was the same year
the snows never came

the same year
your heartless mirror
turned my skin truth-brittle

the same year
black birds refused to fly

and i remembered
(at long last)
how to cry

heart and hands
bent and broken

scrabble-holding
weightless forest

neither you
nor i

but the (w)hole
damn mess

the same year
water taught me
how to whisper

the same year
i spat bitterness
back to center

washed myself clean

the same year
as those that marched
in pattern-dashes
of before

you always leaving

me always loving

someone
never there

and only trees
know the last
ancient riddle

bearing witness to the scars
of hollow hearts

still standing

(always standing)

shedding leaves
like tears
at the threat
of yet another

dark-buried
bold-cold

winter

.  .  .

.

.

listen to my reading of as it turns out below:

i revisit your funeral
in a dream filled with rooms

paint my face crackle-grey
and watch the pink of my tourmaline ring
wash away

every so often
i think i see you

still

every so often
you’re choosing a can of peas
or bringing the cat
you never had in for fleas

and as long as i don’t look

directly at you

i’m certain you’re

saying

i’m game

the second poplar tree in the front yard is dying.

it lost its mate a few years back, and being the romantic that i am, when it started dying from the top down, i decided it must have a broken heart. ha. then again, perhaps i’m right.

i have to figure out what to do about it this year, how to afford to cut it down, if i can bear to cut it down, the hole it will leave in my view (and my heart) when it is gone. how much i will miss the sound of poplar leaves rustling through the darkest hours of long summer nights.

it will mark another ending, in this winter filled with endings i have not yet learned to process. all part of the same era, the same time-vine of hope. i planted those two poplars when i first started my garden. i planted my garden when i first started my marriage.

and now i am surrounded by empty spaces, dying graces, loaded places.

there is so much to say and nothing to be told.
so much to grieve and nothing real to bury.
so much to carry and nothing left to hold.

my truth is a dark burden, and in the silent hours of night, i sit by my window and watch those bare dead branches pierce the sky.

the gap its absence will leave on my horizon is too difficult to consider just now.

i’ll deal with it this summer.

. . .

there’s another tree in my front yard, a young river birch with its own painful story.

last summer, i actually thought about killing it. of course, i didn’t. i couldn’t. i wouldn’t.

after that, i thought about moving it, to somewhere out of sight from that same window.

i didn’t do that, either.

i decided, in the end, to watch it grow. it has three trunks. i have three children, three grandbabies. we all have roots here.

it doesn’t even begin to fill the sky yet, or close the hole in my horizon, but i’ve re-framed its significance in the window of my existence.

one day, it will offer shade to this tiny house still filled with love. in the fall, i’ll watch yellow leaves drop down through the night and think how often we all begin again. each morning, each month, each year.

the seasons have always marked my cadence.

i’m looking forward to the spring.

don’t let yourself be swallowed
by tomorrow’s grief

let the tongue of life
cradle you

now

here

in the silence
of present

this rocking boat
of emptiness

hollowed out home
of hope

will be your vessel

as a child, i was often told I saw the world through rose-colored glasses. i could use a pair of those these days, when my sky is gray and life keeps handing me hard lessons.

these days, i’m thinking a lot about truth, betrayal and strength, and grace. digging deep, healing wounds that keep re-opening, cutting a crooked path through the tangled forest of fortitude.

it’s dark in here, but i never have been afraid of darkness. how else can we measure the light? besides, once your eyes adjust, it’s easier to see what lurks in the shadows, who your cellmates are, who reaches out a hand to guide you.

perhaps i’ll put a new garden over there, just around that bend. maybe a bench and a book with a view of the sunset. perhaps i’ll build my own mountain in the backyard of bafflement.

and then, just when i am ready, i will climb to the top and belt out the song of my survival.

. . .

writing again, winding my way through some things. finding my way home.

*from The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove by Dead Can Dance