that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and are they
one and
the same?

the questions roar
and the answers
take flight

and the trees just
stand there

growing

.

.

.

or if velvet could fly

and the way i watched that hawk
yesterday
brushing a new painting
of sky

as i tried to write a poem
that was not about death

and smiled at simple
impossibility

.

.

.

.

out of focus by default

feathered in darkness

made invisible by midnight

reaching higher

.

a silhouette

formed by stars

and expectation

spinning tumbling diving

straight for the heart

of a nest

made from twig and

woven promises

.

always landing

skewed and off center

grasping finger and foothold

holding on letting go

fluttering

.

.

.

.

i am
pastel pretty and dark closet rune
bone deep and feather dried
fountain flushed and mirror movement

i am
earth breath and wing touch
hope bare and hollow eyed
fault finder and gravity maker

i am
song sword and syllable certain
scream vague and whisper written
moon hearted and nest addled

i am
moss skirt and crooked finger
open grave and winded future
beaded lover and scramble dancer

i am
the sun that never rose
in the forest of supplication
fleeing the harness of habitude

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

.

This was yesterday morning, and the blizzard had just started.

And a blizzard it was, nothing pretty about this storm, no gently falling snow, no winter wonderland, just crazy blasting wind, hard white pellets, dropping temperatures.

This morning it’s nine degrees. And this window feeder is buried in snow. This little chickadee was the last bird I saw there yesterday. After that, I hope he found a bit of shelter. Along with all his friends.

Later this morning, I’ll have to go out and start the clean up process, digging out, shoveling, clearing snow off the roof, which was already leaking when I got up. But first, I’ll feed the birds, the feathered warriors of winter. And I’ll tell them that tomorrow, it’s supposed to be in the high 40s again.

I’ll tell them that spring is working its way here, albeit slowly.

Hang on, Mr. Chickadee, hang on.

Mama’s coming.