that's mrs. mediocrity to you

the squirrel in the tree
i almost can’t see

racing hard
against gravity’s sunrise

hurry hurry
mask survival

in the distance
screams of geese
folding wings
to cold dark water

ever-floating
weary bones
through a litany
of maps
named somewhere

we’re all hearing
the same bold song

set loose
in a blistering sky

all huddled for warmth
beneath fleece
or feather

the ogre
and the ingenue

wrapped together
in the velvet clip
of silence

listening

it’s friday again
and also

snowing

the birds breathe fire
and singe the cat’s hair
and i’m finally able
to say:

spring

(but no one hears me)

…

i threw away all the curtains
because i want to see everything

i’ve grown old on a mantle of marble
i’ve breathed love into statues of stone

i wrapped grey over hard faded rainbow
because gold is the color of own

…

the day starts

with

tea and sunshine

rye and wheat

mess and murmur

that’s it

that’s all there is

…

time winds down

and i think of hours

minutes

days

spent

chopping slicing dusting folding sweeping typing
designing walking rinsing eating reading roaming
washing preparing gathering weeding building
sorting sifting scrubbing changing twisting

staring at sky

loving

living

i built a new corner
and walked straight into it

left the paint on the floor

drying

held my arms high and my head straight

buried the forgotten

forgave the remembered

worshiped nothing

but silence
and the tenacity

of trees

throwing spring green buds
into air

like so much
confetti

the taste of tea and whispers of envy

smells of green and cinnamon
rolling through a harbor of unbalance

too late too much too early too little

promises skitter in every dark corner

wallflower flower built for keeping
pressed between pages

hidden bouquet

squirrel fight

dove coo

blue jay belligerent

.

skin soaking up sun

anti mirror

wide smile

prismatic

.

desiderata

forgotten

.

and she walked
the center line
straight past the pond
of forgiveness

.

dipping one toe in

the cold is brutal

still

this is where i live

now

old and grey
and somewhat silent

no one cares
except when I creak

sitting alone
in my sun-filled corner

i have always had grey cats

a favorite color
in a tiny life

lived beneath every rainbow

where the bluebirds bring me sky
and I am just a figment
of a girl’s imagination

holding court
at the laundresses
tea party

and you are the shadow
of my joy

…

she chose
the flower

he named
the scent