Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Of Things That Fade And Remain

She was a dahlia at noon
as red as a love poem
facing the sun
he was a midnight stone 
stuck in silence where her shadow grew


Dreams are funny things.

Monday: I am at once sunk neck-deep in a rain puddle, driving, unaware of my destination, late for work, and alone in what was once a busy bar, so I walked away. 

About that summer flower and sad rock above, what can I do about those two?

Monday, July 14, 2014

A Monday Night

Laughter in my heart is you
Pain in my laughter is you
Dead in dried leaves chasing the breeze, is you.

Where one year goes, another comes.
You played music and sang along, folding warm clothes from the dryer.

I hit my head on the shelf and cried, chopping carrots for your soup.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Did You Hear Something?

I dreamt it wasn’t a dream
i shouted your name
but you were dancing

she swung in your arms
her sugar lips glistened
where yours had been

screw you


Rain, the forest, and random thoughts:

Seasons drift past. Winter was hell, then spring struggled to break it. Daylight lingered. Warmth at last.

I listened last night to early summer’s faint rain and watched the dogs sleep. It’s true, that she swung in your arms once, and I turned around and poured myself a shot, right there on the edge of jumping into a dark hole where I would forget your name.

Wednesday night’s rain tapped away and again I remember waking, wondering what was real. Coral quince blooms and honeysuckle soaking the air — I believe in these ephemeral things. Like vernal pools and I love yous and puddles caught by the sun, they linger and are lost.

From the crooked horizon rose a hawk, solitary and free. That’s the way things should be. Wild things were rearranging themselves after the timid rainfall. Wood frogs bustled beneath damp leaves.

I thought about an old forgotten cottage boarded up on the forest’s fringes, aching for sunlight. It’s coming. Almost. Soon I’ll tear those boards free. And soon I’ll stop being a bare-minimum girl. I'll throw away these overused clothes in which I stew, growing so sick of myself. For a large part of the last decade I’ve sat at night gorging on books and red wine, getting nowhere but hungover. There is so much more than that.