i will not cry over closed doors
there are enough warm welcomes
embraces that surround me
in a halo of light
from these
my already friends
who are my belonging
and who make their home
in the deepest recesses
of my heart
Open door, open heart November 29, 2008
This morning’s snow November 21, 2008
This dark lasts weeks and weeks,
the sun beds earlier, wakes later
and so, I wish, could I –
bury myself beneath my log-cabin quilt,
nest in a duvet of down.
But alarm clock “dee dee dee deets”,
parakeets chatter me from sleep,
I pull on warm clothes, shoes,
key the door locked tight and
head the two miles northwest,
off to school.
I find myself chasing my vapored breath,
a flurry of snow kissing soft my flushing cheeks
and I ask the spirit of Poe to possess me
in this haze of cold and gray.
Fall November 16, 2008
Take a little time,
just take some time.
Talk to me,
take a little walk with me.
Let’s kick up some leaves, red and gold,
piles and piles alongside the road.
If it rains, hold my black umbrella for us both.
We’ll walk arm in arm avoiding puddles.
It’s so blustery, drippy with fall wet, and cold.
So take some time,
take just a little.
Talk to me,
take a little walk with me.
Wrap your scarf around you tight.
I’ll wear the handknit one my mother made and
houndstooth cap, maroon and beige.
If it’s too cold, we’ll huddle as we hobble
down the cobblestone streets.
When we get home we’ll cuddle on the couch,
warm our soggy selves with cocoa and spiced tea.
You’ll be so happy to have spent some time,
just a little,
with me.
jane and edward November 9, 2008
I am rabbit, willow,
waning moon fading slowly into fullness.
I am fluttering lashes soft against the cheek,
feathered pillow, lullaby enticing sleep.
You are raven, oak,
ink in indigo sky.
You are weathered stone,
magician’s cloak, twinkling eye.
I am dragon’s blood and bone,
You are heart and home.
Mouse in a trap August 14, 2008
The mouse is dead. Neck snapped in a sudden crunch of steel and pine. Warm flurry of brown, now stilled, cold in a maroon pool of blood, dime-sized. What once brought screams late at night now brings a small twinge of guilt and sorrow, but not too much, since there are more mice where that one came from and gestation is only twenty days.
The graveyard shivers August 11, 2008
Wet world, slick with rain. A blowing of leaves ripples puddles. The graveyard shivers in the cold. Squirrels scurry for cover, but I remain seated on the wooden bench tented beneath my funereal umbrella, black and cheerless. An ethereal chorus issues forth from St. Peter’s Episcopal church that houses these marble slabs. The sky flashes and roars. Philadelphians impatiently honk their horns on the surrounding streets, while I remain silent, listening, smiling my secret smile, enjoying the gray.
Quietly creeping August 7, 2008
Melancholy sometimes creeps quietly as the mouse that haunts my kitchen. I saw her tiptoeing across the hardwood floorboards toward her backdoor hole behind the radiator. I was rocking in the tangerine easy chair, sipping on a freshly brewed cup of jasmine tea, transparent caramel sweet and fragrant. The mouse crept out; melancholy crept in. It came in waves of wind – the shaded breeze from the courtyard gently rattled the venetians and me along with them.
Summer heat June 13, 2008
I am thinking of a cold glass of mint sweet tea, ice clinking, lounging here on the sofa, feet swung over the back, one hand cradling my head, the other kissing the hardwood floor. The glass is foggy, sweating with cool, clear drops, contrasting with the stickiness of my own. Heat wave. Ninety-four degrees outside and the single overworked, underefficient window unit is struggling just to keep the air inside bearable.
Sunday in the park May 30, 2008
I lie on velvet red rectangle upon cool emerald carpet. The setting sun warms my face even as evening begins to chill. Lazily I watch metallic birds glide across slate clouded sky. Winged flocks pass as sure as shifting constellations. Closer to earth, bees perform their dinner dance above the clover tufts. Pink washes the sky. Birds sing the light away. Fireflies take the stage, yellow beacons in the falling gray.
Prayer May 14, 2008
I need to believe You are found in the silent places, in the pause. That rest and restoration come, not in dogged clinging, but in release. That space for process is progress and there is no formulaic fix. That going inward means gathering strength to live and give again. That I can choose joy to help me bear this present suffering. That this is my time for Sabbath. That I don’t need to change what I am doing at this present moment for other’s opinions of what I should and shouldn’t do, of what is best, or right, or good.
