that's mrs. mediocrity to you

::

her exterior

gave no indication

of the astounding

beauty within.

::

there’s always something creeping
through the cracks and crevasses
peeking out, peering in
whispering instruction

camouflage can only take you
so far into the forest

stillness is a temporary reprieve

your scent will always reveal
the truth of who you are

you can run and hide
bolt and fall
get up again and stare down
your predator

scream at the sun
for daring to shine

if you are wild enough
your strength will save you

::

running, especially in a light misty rain

lilacs and forget-me-nots

popcorn and movies with bare feet and windows open,
lemonade on the side

sundays in the garden with nothing else to do

hummingbirds and dragonflies

an endless stack of books

thunderstorms

staying up late and counting blessings like stars

notebooks filled with words

notebooks filled with empty pages

the golden light of sunset filtering around that corner
and landing just where george used to sit

music i’d forgotten i knew

music i haven’t discovered yet

baby robins

strawberries, dipped in dark chocolate

midnight

an outside fire with dylan and a glass of red wine

a morning serenade by a mockingbird

these buds that spell hope

again and again

::

::

from

a whole

new

life.

::

and finally warming up again, warm enough for a three mile run in shorts and no jacket, warm enough for flip flops and windows open, warm enough for sitting in the garden at dusk listening to birds and tree frogs and the conversations of neighbors as they pass on their walk down the road. they never know i can hear their voices, sitting in the back and hidden from view–sound travels when you live in the country.

it feels like the year is just beginning. winter is finally through with us (knock wood), and like the flowers in my garden, i feel my spirit beginning to bloom. there is energy for more than curling up before the fire, and late nights in bare feet padding through rooms that are my oldest friends become a habit. i will stay up later and get up early, following the pattern of the sun.

if i could live outside just now, i would, in these months between the too cold of winter and the too hot of summer. temperamental though she may be, spring has her moments of sweetness and smiles, though one must always be careful not to cross her. soon, i will dig my hands into this patch of earth i live my life on, planting and weeding, rooting and moving, mulching and clearing. there is much to be done and never enough time to do it.

but these are the days i look forward to all winter, locked inside by walls of gray and shadow, the only echoes from my own voice and the creakings of my house. winter’s sound of snow and silence will slowly give way to the symphony of spring, music, music to my ears. many a late night i will walk outside, just to hear the peepers serenade. i always wonder what it is they sing for, although i’m fairly certain they are happy just to be here, alive.

and i find myself singing my own songs, in my mind or humming just under my breath, feeling more alive than i have in months. grey becomes green and i become young again, at least for awhile. morning tea in the garden is enough to make me smile.

just now, this very second, the first hummingbird of the year has come to sip nectar from a flower.

today i will hang their feeder on my window, this window i spend so much time gazing out, and they will tease kitties that line up on the sill to watch them feed.

it feels like the year is just beginning.

what started out as a run on a day when bones
were too weary tired achy grinding against each other

sorry to carry me further farther faster anywhere
became a walk in which words dropped from my shoulders

like perspiration and all i could think about was what
would happen if i just kept walking kept walking in a line

that’s never straight or to the point or drawn with a
ruler, a line that goes on forever or at least all the way

to pennsylvania and then i decided it might be better
to be a bird with no luggage to carry, no decisions

to make no time for pause or regret or indecision
my only concern would be survival there would

always be food to forage or some kind soul
to set out seed and i would travel light

so light all scattered feathers and
fabulous views and each day

would end with
a song

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days.
In honor of National Poetry Month,
this post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

i live in a place where quiet roams the streets

and birds are my alarm

windows open all night to a symphony of peepers

and the possibility of predator is

a four-legged shadow that almost never

crosses my path

while silence hides under rocks and slithers

away from the light

never quite reaching its destination

this is the anti-city

overpopulated only by mole and chipmunk

tunnel travelers who dig their own map

bending around rock and rising up

to find the jaws of hunger

or absolutely nothing

just bare sky hanging low

so close you can smell

the fragrance of stars

or feel the brush of a wingtip

on your shoulder

::

::

::

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

can you write a poem
about the things you do every day
without being mundane?

dishes and laundry,
smoothing sheets over last night’s dreams
sweeping bits of dust
into piles of promises?

i’ve worn a path into these hardwood floors
27 years of back and forth
around in circles
and i think of all the life
that has fallen through those cracks

unnoticed.

how many times have i wiped
the shine back into this wood stove
just so i could sit before it
and watch it gather dust?

i can build a fire in two minutes flat
but i’ve never had to put one out.

i’ve traded diapers for litter boxes
and mops for steamers.

this house knows all my habits.

it knows, too, to look away
at all the right moments.

we’ve lived together long enough
to recognize the shape
of each other’s

silence.

::

::

::

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

well, cuz,
you used to say in a lazy
d r a w n-out southern drawl
that was half swagger half tease

and i always cocked my ear
in your general direction without
looking because i liked to hear
your voice so much better
than i liked to see
who you were.

::

::

::

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

::

even when

we’re not watching.

don’t forget

to inhale.

::