that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Blooming is a matter of survival. You have to do it, no matter what. It doesn’t have to be big or bold or pretty or showy, it just has to be done.

Even if you’ve been trampled or blown over, even if you’re lying in the mud, even if you’re dying of thirst, even if no one will see.

You don’t do it for the sun or the praise or the perfume.

You don’t do it for the sky or the attention.

You don’t do it for the hummingbird.

You do it for the release.

Open.

Even when it hurts.

Let the world wrestle you to the ground.

Stand up and offer the beauty of resistance.

Find the light seeping in through all the cracks.

Silence is not the same as consent or cowardice or indifference. Silence is a sign of strength. Silence means you are listening.

Breathe in. Grow again, taller. Find a way. Take the path you need, or the one you can find. Keep going. Blooming is a matter of survival.

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pass by slowly

in a white-hot slice

of sky

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in a sky mixed from paint and loose smoky cloud
sung by the song of ophelia’s left wrist
floating home on a river of chasm

we are built with such fragile temerity
says a poster on the wall of indifference

held in place with tacked-up tone diamonds
ripple-torn by the weight of overwhelm

it’s all too much and never enough

because cut glass and cold minded carbon
are futility’s intrinsic fossil

holding on to lost light with the fine-crazed frailty
of their own impetuous gleam

the stars will always hang high
in one corner of sky
but first you must swallow the darkness

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in the middle of a day
laced with rain cloud
and robin

singing hymns to unseen
heavens

i found a grave
beneath
the tallest poplar

perfect circle
of blown-out feather

grey on white
white on grey

death
in the center

a ring to fit

a broken finger

a hole for grief

to tumble into

and the echo

echo

of eternal

narration

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thorn of light
thorn of bright

trapped
in the call

of a prussian
blue night

i am gypsy
i am queen

to the hounds
of hope unseen

slipping silent
racing whole

through a screen
of web retold

counting distance
and return

with an abacus
of learn

blood roses
blooming tight

on the skin
of my lost flight

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and wishing for clarity

the kind that only comes
when you can’t see anything

a storm passes through
and the trees
bend to meet their maker

as water runs rivulet
to river

to wash away
a tyranny
of dust

and we must learn to beg
forgiveness
or perception

zig and zag
as we run free
in the silence
between raindrops

we must learn
to drop to our knees

genuflect and
bow in a prayer
of defect

broken limb and
scattered branch
the only clues
to guide us

through a cold-cracked sky
of false deliverance

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and it’s the magic of twilight that draws me outside, down the hill to a swamp filled with peepers. some nights the sound roars through the darkness, and on those nights, it’s not that i can’t sleep, it’s just that i don’t want to. my primal memory wants to lie outside and count the starts into numbers too large to carry. my feet refuse to forget the sensation of walking. nothing is clear in the darkness, but everything shines, and until you’ve let the moon find your shadow, you’ve never once stood in real light. there are secrets out here, everywhere. the trees are always whispering. i want to walk into the forest and do nothing but listen. that’s where all the answers are, but we’ve forgotten how to hear them. lightning reminds us, but only for a moment. and thunder makes us forget yet again. i want to wash my hair in the rain and leaves my toes caked with mud. i want to run through the color of midnight.

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yesterday my cat
dropped a grackle at my feet
alive, but injured

and i tried to save it
(to no avail)

i lifted it gently and
placed it beneath the yellow
lilies, offering shelter and
food and water and also
a projection of hope

and the bird looked up at me
frightened and resigned,
and then together, we waited

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later, i carried the body
away and noticed, in the way
humans do,
that it was heavier in death
than in life

as if its spirit had somehow
managed to counteract gravity,
at least a little

and i realized
we have it all wrong,
this thing called grief
our underlying fear
of being forgotten

because the world
always remembers

it’s just that we
finally

 forget ourselves

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I took this photo a few weeks ago, and it made me laugh, Mr. Grackle looking all fierce.

I’d like to think that’s the look he’s giving NaughtyKitten™ just now.

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some days you have to cut off a limb
just to force new growth

prune out the broken bits and
wait for them to form fresh skin

cover old wounds
and choose the right spot
for opening veins

none of it makes you less whole

less beautiful

less valuable

your resilience is your strength

gathering force from every

misstep

mistook

wear your scars like a badge
of adornment

reach for the sky
with wide open arms

the stars will fall into
your humble embrace

and you will refuse
to hold them

their light on your skin
is always
enough

and release is the salve
of time’s flight

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the path is predetermined by the seed and the soil
and climate’s complete lack of benevolence

a straight line leads only to infinity
and so we are faced with sharp corners

zigs that zag through uncut forest
fallow field
the vagary of mountain

and you can look for the signs

proof of possibility

your only reward for getting it right

but just this morning
one lone leaf was pointing at orion
and tomorrow
it will tumble
through wet sky

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