that's mrs. mediocrity to you

we mark the passage of
time like it matters

your sand
my glass
our history

none of it can be claimed
owned
held onto

still
you extend
cupped hands
to a clear blue sky

trying to catch
the simple version
of this story

but sand becomes glass
and i see through you

this is the clearing
in the forest of forever

the sun warms my skin
even as it’s magnified

neither one of us
wants to burn

yet we lie here
singing songs
of ritual
and habit

until we’re buried
grain by grain

side by side

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when you can laugh at your own insignificance
then you begin to understand

the world turns and you turn with it
we are all cogs and we are all stars

it was never your job to be a beautiful flower
but always your promise to set seed

the future is a rhyme you cannot hear
written from the way you stand today

refuse to cower
refuse to break
refuse to be defined

the sky is the mirror of forgiveness
there is no reflection and no
perfect light

you can grow in the darkest of corners
stretch yourself out
be alive in the paradox of possible

the wind will take you
or you will melt back into
earth’s wide open arms

the rain will cleanse you
not of your sins
but at least of the dust you carry

the sun will burn you
and the moon will steal pain
from the beauty of your wounds

tomorrow is only an idea

and you’ve already had plenty
of those

hang on
hang on

let go

the release
will be

your nirvana

your white knuckles
have always
been bone

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i stand here wondering

(wandering)

about now and the clarity
of a chrysanthemum

grounded and brimming with growth

what it would be like to live so simply

sun water soil
and perhaps wind
to worry about

and those creepy things that eat at you
leaving holes to let the air whistle through

i have no answers

(pondering)

but i am just as fine with that
as the clove scented rose

clinging to a vine no one wants to climb

growing hips (ha!) for fuel and tea

so much stronger than the
colored bits of beauty
you sniff around

thorn and cane build bud and blossom
roots wrap fingers around earth’s core

i stand here

(wondering)

i hold this day like a jewel in my palm
knowing soon enough
my gypsy soul will be trapped inside
with fire

this morning there was rain
pulling moisture from the air
in a long grey exhale

everything is damp

and i sit here weaving
magenta colored bracelets

while you dance above my head
with your promise

kiss me over the garden gate

i would, if i could reach
the beauty in your title

instead i sit at your feet
and water you with gratitude

the sky feeds me
and i am always hungry

you know this and still,

you bend slowly
touch your lips to mine

somewhere high above
i see a cloud
shaped like winter

the cat drops a cardinal
at my feet

forcing me to remove it
or watch him eat

all the while
in my arms

i carry
your bouquet

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p.s. the flower in the photo really is named kiss me over the garden gate

the waltz of time has fewer ripples
than the calamity of youth

there is much to remember
and little to miss

except the key to everything
and even then, it’s nice to know
that one exists

i have a dancing map,
you know, the kind that shows
where to place your feet

two pair speckled across the page
in a sneeze of pattern
meaning nothing without music

i’m always so busy listening
i forget to follow directions
until i am left alone, arms flailing
on the opposite side of the room

this is the dance i was born to do
not the wallflower so much as the floor
each step you take leaves an imprint
and each night i crack the code
of your travels

i could follow you then
find my way home or at least
back to bed

but i have bells on my ankles
and this tattered ancient skirt
and the moon plays an old piano song
with her broken, bony fingers

i am night and you are shadow
turn and spin
turn and spin

i need the light of stars
upon my skin

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all day long i listen to the song
of grasshoppers, crickets, and beetles

after a time, i can hear nothing else

the buzz of a hummingbird sipping nectar
from windowbox purple petunias
shifts me from there to here

again

and again

and i marvel at wings
quite literally
spun from sugar

you drive into the world of concrete jungle

you drive into the world

you drive

away

as i walk these paths
choked with weeds and chewed up leaves

pulling a cloak of clouds over your shoulder
to remind me that the stars are always lit

and i am here

here

with only these crows for company

some days they tell me of your travels

some days they carry me to grace

some days they peck at my shiny rings
as i reach for the sky with lost fingers

some days
they bring me
white feathers

held in beaks flecked with blood, stardust

and gold

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Note: I am having problems commenting on WordPress blogs for some reason… but I am still reading!!

i listen for the space between splashes
and wait for the mystery of fountain

water is everywhere and i’m afraid to drown
one drip of silence at a time

but this pool on the floor just keeps growing
rivulets and fingers spreading stain

i dip my thumb in your aged chalice
still thirsty for all you cannot give

in this room i read the chronicle of empty
and everything you feed me tastes of salt

my heart drinks you in and spits lost longing
into the dusty veil of open corners

this is the mud we wallow in
though later we’ll leave footprints in the hall

as the laughter of thunder echoes lightly
and rain keeps running down the wall

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it’s not my soul i want to show you
though blue is never hard to find

not my heart that opens
petal by petal

nor an hourglass ticking beads
of broken glass and burnished
mirror

i lay on the ground and stare at sky
to see the everything of nothingness

but there is no cloud
to hang my string from
and i find
i don’t want to be tethered

i embrace eternity’s grace
even as it leaves me

barren

open

whole

i’ve moved past something
without even knowing i was turning

and if i lay here long enough
the sun will bleach my bones

i find this comforting

the dance that began in my feet
has found the window of my eyes

i let the music fly
sigh dry
cry high

this
is what i want you to hear

this is the year
i learned to sing

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.

arms wide open

reach for the light

even when

it blinds you

.

pretty pictures
telling prism stories
and so much gets lost
in lead and separation

everything you see
is colored
by comparison

complement and
analogy

pattern and shade

rendition and
supplication

you have to listen

the wind
seeps in
between pane
and crack

the truth
is always
in the whispers

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