that's mrs. mediocrity to you

I walk outside after dark and smell the crisp cool of November, the month of birthdays and decay, reflection and gratitude.

Color bleeds from this month in a endless stream of fade. It makes me sad, a little, but also soothes some part of my heart that believes in the comfort of grey, a neutral landscape to paint with words and possibility.

I was born in this month of thanks-giving, so I suppose it’s no coincidence that it holds my favorite holiday.

There is always something to be grateful for.

I breathe this in as a daily reminder.

There were no stars visible in the sky last night, low clouds rolling through on their way to someplace colder, wishing to be relieved of the weight they carry.

But I know, by my horizon, where the North Star hides, the only constant in a world that’s always moving.

Winter’s wife, singing him home.

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the man in the moon
has always been woman

crone shaped and goddess curved
skin pocked with wisdom

hiding coy in the disguise
of sun’s darkest shadow

the stories she whispers aren’t meant to be heard

but rather

inhaled

bathed in

whirled to

and some nights she goes mad in the space between beats

as the music over echoes
the pounding labyrinth of steps

stretching out behind us
in a field filled with stones

circled by the forest growing through
our mother’s bones

white-silver ghosts

swaying hand in hand

round the fire

of eternity’s remembrance

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{for Mary Ellen}

The grey months are coming, and I look to them with a mix of longing and trepidation. There are so many things I love about winter, I just wish it could be a bit shorter. But no matter, just now there is color and contrast on the cusp of November, many trees are bare, especially up here at the top of this hill, but others are holding on to their color, clinging to it, really, not ready to let go of another year’s palette.

Mother Nature is a magical painter.

October was a month of scurrying, like a squirrel packing away sustenance. Getting things done in a rush and flurry, because November will be busy in other ways, and this year will fly off into the next before I can catch my breath. But that’s what winter is for, here, nights by the fire and days lit by the sparkling gift of snow.

It’s so easy to talk myself into loving winter in October. By March I will be singing a different tune, and longing for the first hint of green. But that is what I love about the seasons, each one so distinct, with the comfort of their pattern woven in to the tapestry of years.

The forest of kisses that kept me company all summer long is gone. The purple monskhood outside my window is fading quickly, the last bit of color in the landscape of change. I didn’t know, when I planted it there without thinking all those years ago, that it would become my favorite bit of autumn. It’s a plant that asks only to be left alone, a plant that performs without coaxing. There have been times when it has bloomed through the year’s first snow.

We’ve become old friends, perennial sisters, moving through life together.

Bloom, rest, grow, bloom again. Each step in the process just as vital as the next.

The lesson my garden keeps trying to teach me, in whispers and in shouts as loud as the red of this dogwood’s branches.

I listen, I ignore, I listen. I force myself to pay attention.

I learn.

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i find strange comfort in knowing it’s all been said before

the same sun rises every day
to watch us evolve
yet leaves us in darkness the half length of night

the differences between us do not show in our shadows
those shape-shifting liars we cannot escape

and we rise to every occasion
donning hero aprons and pattern painted nails
to whip up the false strength to fight
or some new brew that will do the job for us
alter reality just enough
to make one of us believe
the mirror is honest

but none of us can see what’s beyond that glare
sparkling decoration conceals our blind spot

and history tells the truth every day
even as we turn our bent-backed bodies
because hope is the secret that leads to survival

while the moon reflects only true light

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some years the monkshood never manages to bloom
before frost bites into tender petal

this year an exception has been made
and purple wins the prize of everywhere

last night i spent hours cleaning words
blowing dust from ancient pages
remembering who i was when i first read sylvia

there’s a book on my shelf
called Nets to catch the Wind
(just like that with a lowercase c)

from aunt blanche and uncle doc
christmas 1929

an unassuming volume marked
by a long ago girl who
probably dusted once or twice herself

i have books signed by anne waldman
robert creeley, olga broumas,
diane wakowski
and the one i bought when i took
that class from ginsberg

but i am drawn to this plain covered
slim dusty tome written by elinor wylie

DISCARD stamped just above
the tiny handwritten inscription

as the monkshood sways in the breeze
catching time in a net made of season

both wind and word whispering
of days long forgotten

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How have you been? I’m sorry I keep missing you, it seems like every time you stop by I’m off doing something from the great list of needs to be done. It’s never-ending, that list, and even though you kept bringing me treats and good sunshine, I just haven’t had the time to come out and play. Your cousin, October, has already written and told me she expects better treatment. And I’ll try, I promise. Maybe I’ll even cook her up a nice pot of chili, with a pan of apple crisp for dessert. I mean, a girl’s gotta eat, right?

Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for letting you down, I know you tried really hard. I’ll try to do better next time.

I do have a funny story for you, with your allergies being so bad, you’ll be able to relate. This morning I walked to the kitchen straight from my bed, just the same way I do every morning, and turned the stove on to heat the teakettle. While I waited, I talked to the animals, offered treats and fresh water and snuggles, and then I made myself a cup of tea.

I walked into my studio to start getting organized for all the work I have today, and puttered around for a few minutes while I waited for the teakettle to whistle. (Wait, what? I know!) Finally, I figured I hadn’t turned the burner on again, I do that pretty regularly, so I walked out to the kitchen and saw that the kettle wasn’t even sitting on the burner–I usually get that far, just forget to turn it on. And it wasn’t until I saw the cup I’d just made sitting on the counter that I remembered I’d already made it. I think I might be losing my mind. How could I have forgotten something I just did five minutes before?

Apparently I need tea to wake me up enough to make tea. Not sure how I’m going to solve that conundrum, but I thought you might get a kick out of that story.

And just yesterday I made myself a cup without boiling the water first. I realized what I’d done before I took a sip, thank goodness, but still. I’m telling you, these allergies are a killer. I feel like I’m walking around in a fog half the time. Then again, that’s pretty much my normal state of being.

I haven’t been sleeping well either. Some nights I feel like I don’t sleep at all. Damn hormonees. (You saw that movie, right? My Big Fat Greek Wedding? I can never remember if that was you or January.) And have you heard the coyotes lately? They’re crazy loud and it creeps me right out. Sounds like there’s a million of them out there, trolling around in that field right across the road. It makes me worry about Naughty Kitten.

He’s been on a rampage, killing everything he can find. He left us a chipmunk by the back door just the other day, belly up and pathetic looking. Sorry Mr. Chipmunk. I always feel bad about the chipmunks, until I remember that time I saw one in the basement. Then I tell him to get on out there and find the rest of them.

Well, I guess I’d better go and get busy, I have a million things to do today before October gets here. I do hope you’ll come and stay with us again, next year. Maybe you’d like to come for tea. Ha ha.

Love ya tons,
Me

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The light you dream of in the dead of night, better than gold, bigger than lack of sleep or broken hearts or silent struggles.

It never lasts, this light, it’s fleeting, which does nothing except make it more precious. You can’t hold it, it will slip through your grasp like the sand you live in, grains of time mocking you as they slide from your fingers.

Let it go. Let it all go. Watch it pile at your feet and then kick it out of the way.

Run. With a smile on your face and sweat pouring down your back.

You can’t outrun your own existence, but every so often you can sidle up next to it, keeping pace for a moment of gratitude.

You see that light? It’s yours. But only if you give it away.

The flowers have known this all along.

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paint by number and color coded
autumn’s billboard splashed
with spring’s discarded paintbox

david hockney meets matisse at eleven
and jackson pollock just keeps painting

brush tips touch sun lips
and time becomes golden
or
tomorrow

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In the morning,
I am always part bird.

Ready to fly
and hungry for adventure,
lightweight
and grateful for dawn.

I live in a heart filled with song.

The sky is a playground
of minutes,
ticking off wingbeat and
leaf warbled landing.

A canvas of sunset,
undrawn.

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thirteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

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I wrote this last year as the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event approached.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

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