::
Talk about where you were going the day you got lost.
Did you ever get to where you meant to go?
::
truth be told
i get a little bit lost
every day
drawing your own map
makes living with questions
the only direction
but somehow
i always find my way
back home
.
.
.
.
tiny signs of life
in a landscape bent on breaking
beating
renewal growth
renewal
growth
quietly anticipating tomorrow
without calling for a promise
.
.
see, i told you:
you can only get lost
when you’re following
someone else’s map
why don’t you ever listen
and
i heard she took everything,
even the cat
the rest gets drowned out
by a splashing bus and
the slap in the face
of exhausted exhaust
.
when the light turns red
and the crowd surges forward
my tall boots refuse to carry on
and i stand there
anchored
by two tiny pieces of
strange stranger’s conversation
smiling because
i know exactly
what she meant
and a mewling kitten
is winding
infinity
around my warm and silent
ankles
.
.
..
.
snow crunches and gives me away
as i stalk the howl of this january moon
a barefoot shivering gypsy
in a white gown meant for summer
snapping in the pearlesque breeze
the seasons have forgotten
how to be themselves
your forest is home
to a bird i cannot name
but i am not afraid
to stand here in the dark
not afraid to burrow under trees
and tunnel through silvery shadow
i already have my own scars
glinting white in the light
of fullness
when my back is turned
you trace them with your cold
clay shiver fingers
while i hold my breath
and play spectral
i know how much
you need
this map
.
..
.
and why would it be, really
we have cool blues for that,
dark midnights and
periwinkle fields to float upon
but it’s winter
give me some vermilion
a scarf of scarlet, or crimson,
lipstick stain on landscape grey
singing loud and unafraid
nevermind who’s looking,
or who knows you’ve been here,
never let them turn away
you steal them in the silver haze of twilight
fighting hard to keep from being swallowed
by dark forest and beckoning fern
snatching words and phrases by the tail
as you fly from branch to broken
in a black ribbon melody of midnight
an owl in the pines smiles at your attempts
to scribble scrabble puzzle out each line
with dissonance and hollow heart echoes
into a ransom note of bittersweet cacophony
hoping only that one star will listen
all the while knowing it will come to rest
in the cached out core of a long dead oak
with shiny bits of treasure you collect at dawn
and offer up as sacrifice to a beacon
that will never shine the light of beauty
on your coal-flavored eye or add the flair
of accessory to your brittle silhouette
but no matter no matter
you mourn you caw
you fly
i’ve spent much of my life
seeking out the illusion
of peace and quiet
hiding in corners and
pasting wallflower smiles
onto ruby red lips
curling inward and
protecting a tiny kernel
called heart {hope}
listening to silence
even as the music
blared boomed sizzled
looking up at sky
while a rainbow
had its arms around me
making wishes on stars
burning brighter
than ancient ceremony
and all this time
all these years
all i really had to do
was open my arms wide
and dance
.
..
.
none of it is pretty
but all of it is beautiful
silence is a game
we have forgotten how to play
shrapnel has become
the currency of time
…….. (as difficult to remove as ever)
sarcasm and wit spin down
from two entirely different trees
evil is the root of the flower
whose petals we eat for breakfast
sacrifice always begins to wilt
just minutes after dinner
the moon is not there
for our amusement
it’s a seed that has yet
to be sown
.
.
.
snow piled on snow
white on white
grey on grey
an exclamation point
of black
silence falls from the sky
and blankets
this earth
this house
this garden
my shoulders
.
i stand
arms outstretched
palms up
gathering crystals that melt
at my touch
ice queen midas
the opposite of gold
yet somehow
i feel
so rich
