I am a little lost Floating Free falling Without an anchor To keep me grounded. The soil here is harsh Unwelcoming And half the things I love Do not grow. Unable to Calm me Comfort me And remind me of home. Cuttings from Grandma’s Lilac tree And pussy willows And the moonflowers That spoke the secret language Between us.
some days i write and it is easy. it feels right, it feels done, and i sit back contented. other days i worry it like a dog with a bone and it refuses to lie down and rest completed. it calls me back time and again, the stubborn mutt that will not give up the rabid bark of incompetent alarm.
he is not an animal person. and though i love him, it gives me a moments pause. he is allergic, so i forgive him. but when they find the cure, all bets are off if he doesn’t pony up.
would that i could build my home with walls of books. make cozy corners nooks and crooks hidden stairs secret panels and window seats galore. nestled in among leather spines yellowed paper and ribbon markers to save the spot most recent read.
worry and fear tosses me back and forth, with eyes closed but not resting. weariness and anxiety hangs heavy upon the chest until i feel i cannot breathe. tangled in the sheets, i am constricted until panic drives me up and awake with a scream.
a message from the blue, out of time out of rhyme, shocks the system and tingles at the edges of old scars. stirring memories of things gained and of things lost. the naivete of youth that left you gun shy, tainted, and a little less eager to thrust your soul out into the void. where once you thought all you needed was hope and love to survive and thrive.
the night has a thousand voices and though their languages may all be different their meaning is the same. nothing is truly alone for all is connected, bonded for life and even after, for nothing ever really disappears. our molecules, our atoms combine, break apart, and combine again as something new, something different, shifting phases of existence. it is most literally a circle of life, continually turning, and ever changing.
The remote clatters Back into The carefully carved Artisan bowl, Headless Of any damage Such brash treatment Might abide. The massive supernova Of a screen up on the stand Goes black, Devoid of power To distract her anymore. She picks up a book instead, Reading art Upon a page As if it were A canvas Upon A gallery wall. The infusion Of creative beauty So complete It moves the muse To begin To whisper Again.
“Seduction was the natural progression of curiosity.” – In the Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatje
the harsh exhalation of conditioned air roared over everything, deafening her to bird song and rainfall and tires on gravel in the drive. the night always came as a shock. sudden darkness where once there was light, if only she had looked up sooner.
