to a party
of her own making
storied twice
and added never
confetti birds and
sun balloon
frosted ribbon
and dancing bear
carried home in the fold
of ripe chance
.
.
.
here is the hardest word
not sorry
nor forgiveness
though both are solid rocks
in the shoe of living
but
here
you cannot stay
you cannot leave
you cannot sing yourself away
or back again
from the eternal sunset
of lavender libation
all you can do really
is open
your eyes
your heart
your arms
your mouth
drink it in
inhale
exist beneath this ever
changing
umbrella of now
here
listen
hear it
raining down
.
.
.
because
each moment holds its own redemption
each sunrise is a dare
each drop of rain was once a cloud
.
yesterday
this flower slept in a bed of mud
.
but look how pretty it wears
today
.
It’s raining this morning, a cool rain that calls for windows closed and socks dug out of a drawer I’d prefer not to open until fall.
The kind of rain that, in a perfect world, would also call for curling up on the couch with a light blanket and a good book. But, of course, it’s not a perfect world, and so I will watch it rain while I work and be content with that. More than content, I will be grateful.
Perspective can be such an elusive shadow, flitting in and out of life when you least expect it. But it seems to know when to visit just when you need it most.
So even when I am working around the clock the way I have been lately, even when I’m questioning so much about the way I live my life and not coming up with many answers, even when my back hurts and my hands ache and in truth, I’m feeling a little bit sorry for myself, it’s good to look up every so often.
Today, I say, let it rain.
Eventually, there will be another sunset as lovely as this one, and the right moment to sit there and enjoy it.
But just now, the sky is crying and the basement will flood and I have more work than time.
And all of it is beautiful.
i am awash in a sea of pretty pictures
and no one can save me from myself
so i built this tiny boat
from matchsticks and ribbon
with seven layers and five sunsets
and three extra blankets
i don’t collect things anymore
especially dust
and there can’t be two of anything
because i only like odd numbers
but i see everything there is to see
floating in these waves, every color
interspersed with black and white,
all leading to a shore I cannot reach
at least not without stopping
1,457 times to say
how beautiful
.
.
.
.
