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.

after the longest winter ever . . .





five, 5, small songs full of warmth and hope.

and just when the world turns green, all our dreams unfold into reality.

goodbye to the cold life, trees brown and bare.  our old bones laid lonely against the gray.

hello to the warm life, trees green and full.  our old bones laid in crosses against the blue.

when my hair was the color of dandelion wishes
i woke in the milky-way inspired night
the fire reflected in the back of my eye ~

someone has burned the fields,
we will have no harvest this year.

tears twined in the metal of the model t.

one breath ~ one second ~ one hundred years.

same to me.

whispering, these ghosts, this memorial
of copper spoons and iron locks.

satin cords, or leather, hold the keys.

your fingered keys, the ivory that is me.

a whippoorwill to weave us, heart to heart.

the heron, to tear us, limb from limb.

that silent, sacred flight.
only room for one,
a solitary trip.

the night falls upon the garden,
red smudge of light on the dead,
(hey, they are sleeping)
lilies.

a cardinal, drinking deep from
the iced water in the pond.

beneath the koi, the goldfish
float, transfixed by the cold.

they have not remembered
their summer, liquid swim.

but they will, dance again.