or the belief, at least, that somehow
morning always comes with a sun bold or hidden
bringing new chairs to sit in
beneath a ripe old sky
and gnarled hands knitting hope
by the basket
full
of memory and knotted bits
all the stars you gave
away
and all the sunshine
you gathered
.
.
.
clean white corona
pulled from hard-packed earth
both more
and less
fragile
than
sky
.
.
.
.
and hummingbirds, too
.
tree frogs and sunshine
and a big bowl of sky for breakfast
.
my heart dances on the morning
when spring came to town
.
.
.
i’m pinning all my hopes on you
tired of this ride and this blue tide and
this ancillary stream
of consciousness
you pull my way
every day
may
slips away
weeds twining
up parallel ankles
everything’s growing
and this mud is downhill shifting and
i’m pinning all my hopes on you
.
.
.
Comfort zones. They get tighter as we get older, much like that favorite pair of jeans. We get set in our ways, and we like that, mostly, we find comfort in routine and pattern and the familiar.
But life is too complicated to allow us to stay in any one place for very long. Just when we settle in and start feeling all warm and fuzzy, something happens, something changes, and we have to learn how to move through life all over again. And I’m okay with that. It keeps things interesting at the very least.
We go through phases. And they’re called phases because they are slices of time that have a beginning and an end.
The leaves on the oakleaf hydrangea just outside my studio window are just about to open. Dozens of buds waiting for just the right moment. Each one unique, if you look closely, yet all part of the same mother plant. Yes, that’s a metaphor. A nice reminder to myself this morning, a sunny moment in a week that’s been filled with clouds both literal and figurative.
I am learning new things. It is making my brain hurt, which happens as you get older. My body is holding me hostage with hormones, and I keep reminding myself that I am becoming. Moving on. Getting ready to open to a new season of life.
Pfft. That makes it sound pretty, and quite honestly, it’s not. But it’s going to happen just the same, and I’m going to embrace all of it, even the rage. (Yes, there is rage.)
Maybe you lose something as the years go by, bits of innocence and wonder, but you don’t forget they exist.
I think.
Maybe I’ll find my way back, or perhaps I’ll end up in a different place altogether. Yes. I’m pretty sure that’s the answer.
But I’m still asking questions. And I’m still going to open, even when it is painful.
Because there is sun to feel on my face, and a garden to plant, again, and all these people to love with the heart of a crone.
Reasons enough to spread my arms wide.
Reasons enough.
.
.
.
and you cling to the thread of recognition
stitched up your arm proclaiming you
mended
when torn is what you are
not broken
torn and sewn
back together
with the needle
of forgiveness
and these aren’t neat, tiny stitches
these are meant to leave a scar
a mark you’ll wear as badge
as you walk into battle
fragile and crumbling
paper thin
unyielding
.
.
.
what’s around
the next corner is always mystery
walk anyway
heart open
be a little naive
on occasion
grin at corny jokes
and let a child win
there are a million second chances
and there are no second chances
the path always starts at the beginning
but we never know where it ends
keep walking
sing
spread your arms wide
twirl in circles
be the fool
filled with wonder
be the fool
laugh like there’s no
tomorrow
.
.
i remember:
racing barefoot through wet grass at first light
northern lights glowing green above a broken picnic table
three moons on three nights
innocence and wonder (lost and reclaimed)
the sound of my own heart breaking
forgetting to look both ways
holding the feather of your hand in a sea of rough sheets
scattered petals on a bridge leading forward
the owlish sound of love
being here being there being here
remembering
.
.
buy me an election and i will sing a song
or crow at least
about
wide avenues and what we all deserve
as if deserving
was a right handed down
by a king in midas disguise
and you think that’s a joke
but i saw him once
touch a baby and just after that
a dark weapon
and neither one has the nerve
now to tarnish
and no one’s listening
no
one’s listening
there is music in every
hallway
but the lights are out
and we are all pretending
not to hear
we are all too busy
being busy
fighting
for the corner office
in a building
shaped by vaults
and steal
.
.
.
thanks to frost
we all have a path
mapped out in our minds
marked with the sign
of less taken
the squirrel doesn’t care
if you’ve been here before
he only knows
you’ve disturbed
his last nap
he’s marked anyway
with numbered days and
peanut offering
drowning out the sound
of fancy rodent
and you take possession
of land you’ve just stepped on
thinking mine and wild
and go away and
meanwhile the sky
is laughing
.
.
.
