it's been a water summer, 

     a summer of water.

skin smelling of rain, my soul a deep spring.

           i never knew, i would be apart

           of this liquid heart.

dragonfly dreaming,

homemade bread,

     hanging out in a bell jar.

baking soda magic, pulls out

     the sting.

you took the black road, 

     i took the white.

spark in my eye.

i am the light, quiet pulse in a dark night.

lighting bug glow, rising.  star sparkle,

     milky way ride.

there were yellow jackets in the Mary garden,

they stayed for two full moons.

they would swarm,

when we we came searching for 

     hummingbird medicine.

flying into my sunflower and snow

hair, tangled with my 

off-key tune.

they would buzz

but never sting.

all the while, Ella would 

sing.

my voice has changed.

the world has changed.

but i won't cry,

     ah, i lie

you know i do.

     

     sometimes.

it's been a summer of 

    sweet heat.

the deer with her fawn,

    curled in sleep at

     the roots of the 

     hurricane tree.

she lives a soft, wild life

     full of wild weeds and 

     fantastic fear.

all the while we make

     our way towards mountains

     of smoke.

turn face and head towards

     the manatee river.

we take the top off.

face hit hard by

the wind of truth,

this roaring silence seizes

 thought and cleans the mind.

it is summer of quiet.

     storms set in plantinum.

luna moths fly towards star light.

down on the dock, we float into 

    the veins of the universe.

i know where to find doors, i have a room full.

exit.
entrance.

Some with milk glass panes, others with brass hinges and handles,
others
all cracked lead paint,
lonely reminders
of long-ago spaces.

I have had the monarch dream, I have brewed
the butterfly medicine and reaped its nectar reward.

born on the pyre, woman formed of ash and bone.

exit.
entrance.

listen to the flutter that presses softly within your skin.
I can take you back to the garden, hushed place.
the moon flower blooms in the quiet star light.

those light drenched days, the herb garden scent.
sitting in the shade sipping sun tea, listening to the crunch
of tires coming slowly down the gravel road.

glowing flowers
in twilight.

my frog voice unstoppered, pouring out into the rain -
frankincense, myrrh and gold; these whispered words.
this ancient song.

locked down, but never bound.
wings broken,
mended,
found.

in a pink tub,
I was drowned.

alone, rose colored glasses.
golden hour.

exit.
entrance.

begin again.

lightening bugs rise.
laughter.
velvet night.

shush, hush, hug.
starry night.
held tight,
soon, the warm will wind.

a stringer full of fish.
a sky full of wish.

cicada moon.

exit.
entrance.

she is alone,
aglow
in angel embrace.

tree, fields stretch.
whippoorwill echo.
quiet waves,
on quiet water.

our lake,
our entrance.

begin,
again.

and there,

heart beat with black and orange wings.
the mother gene, the cavern home,

ah, little white lights.

goldfish, in endless stream, my cicada moon,
my hot, sweet, deep dream.

this wooden bowl, filled with light-bleached
snail shell hope.

why?

why not??

my baby mama, my fragile flood.

hush a-bye, wooden cradle songs.

memories and premonitions,
layered in every image.

the lady in the white dress? behind
the broken door?

the paint peels.

she is gone.

then, gone again.

we will roll in the mint,
the bees will leave us be.

turn this way, here, into the light.
let it catch the shadow and throw
it away.

turn this way, here into the storm.
you will catch the lightening,
then you will know how to throw away

the things that break you.

the murder.

the murder,
of crows.

they gather in the
elm tree.

(do not take this from me.)

they hem and haw,
they yaw and pontificate.

i cannot help it,
if you are lost.

the seeds?
the flowers?
the tree?

they are growing.
even after drought,
they thrive.

the hive, the bees?

i do not know where they have gone.

but the monarch,
the hummingbirds,
the sulfurs and the cabbage moths.

they fly and land, they are nourished.
they are found in me.

look in the copper bowl.

the skull,
these bone runes.

the goldfish,
the lonely koi?

they swim around.

he saw them and pointed
them out to me.

he cringed,
i tucked them
into my pockets.

they make me sing.

he loves me.

gives me
a room of my own.

i give me.

and over the fire, he feeds me.

rose hips, garlic chives, white flowers
sweet meat.

a spider's web,
this silk draped
over my dreams.

lay your head on
feathers.

sleep.

dream.

one day,
a long, long time ago

i bought a piece of art
when Trey and I went to an estate
sale on Mass Street.

Chinese, full of cranes
gold and water-filled.
three women, on the porch.
watching the birds as they feed.


a home,
a place to live.


we live in a 100-year-old home.

older, really.

1913, so 105.

the 11 built on stone and ancient orange bricks.
dirt older than anything else.

i hang the picture on the wall.
against
plaster, lathe, patches, mud.

(people rarely buy art, i don't know why)

i heard of a canyon, i walked in the woods.
i know the river, i walk a short-length of it
almost every day.  it reminds me of the ocean.
of the meow.

the orca, the babe in arms.
the black cat, she jumps from
the hayloft.  she carries
the kittens, broken.
and she will not stop.

let's go, back . . .
to forsythia and lilacs,
peonies and tulips.

we live in the time of the cicada,
the monarch, the sedum yet to bloom.

the magic flowers are fading.

one day, a summer day,
i took the painting from the wall.

it is time to paint, soft fog
a whisper, a way to fix the pain.

and the picture, i clean it.
dark, (so dark, i did not know this)
the gold, just beneath the bronze.

i did not know how dirty it was.
time after time after time.
i cleaned it with water
then vinegar
paper towels.

repeat. repeat.
turning white to yellow.
start again.

yellow, brown, piles of dirty things.

always trying for the white.

one day, a few weeks ago,
i hung the picture on
the freshly
(hush)
painted wall.

an aura,
so many shades of white.

the bronze turning to gold.
shine.
the cranes, black and white.
grace in the way they move.

now, when i open the french doors
wide, then wider
this piece of art catches every
ray of light.

SHINE.
shining.
white, gold

cranes come home.

new.

It is an adventure, this life.

Trey and I have been together now for 5 years and every day has been full and burgeoning ~ devastating and sweet, a little bit of everything.

We hold hands, we walk through the storm, we face what is ours to face and we embrace, then embrace again,

when the sun breaks through,

we embrace it and each other.

Now, thinking about this little nest of ours emptying a bit, we have our eyes on the next adventure.

We are ready for some Southern living ~ going to take a road trip to figure this thing out . . .


Playlist for "sometimes a road trip takes you home" (click for link)

my husband and i walk,
almost every day ~ even
on the ones full
of rain.
sometimes on days,
full of snow.

we walk through our neighborhood,
craftsmans, victorians, cobblestones.
doors: mahogany, lime green,
blood red, tangerine.

leaded glass, stained glass,
lavender, honeysuckle, irises.

always around the pond, then to the river.

and one day, a blue-sky day,

unexpected,
from a tree, from far away,
a shadow, free-flowing and
self-defining.

we draw closer, a bee,
careening over my shoulder.

then it takes shape,

this wild hive.

a thing of earth and movement,
a life, a living buzz.

the comb, the womb,
created over night.
this magic life,
the hope-filled breath.

we always hold hands,
but now, we lean into
each other.
we hold our breath.
we kiss.

always yearning to take the bloom
and make it sweeter.