Tag Archives: women

Lasts

11 Nov

Most people settle for ill fitted shoes.
Tired of the search,
perhaps reasoning
they looked right at first sight.
Everyone else was wearing a pair.
But at some point feet felt uncomfortable,
rubbed, pinched, cramped.
Perhaps with a few changes they didn’t
exactly match.
So they’re kicked off more than worn.
Such pretty things, off in the corner alone.
And some just break, revealing their misstitching.
It sucks.
They weren’t cheap.
Or maybe they were
and now the feet are bare and
it’s time to move on.
And dammit,
people just dont want their feet to hurt.
Because the road is is rougher and they’d rather blame the shoe.

They never consider
staying bare.
Maybe they’re wearing out someone else’s
perfect pair,
the kind that’s polished, buffed,
resoled
until the leather wrinkles like smiling eyes.
A kind of pair that takes eager feet everywhere.
The kind that is worth changing whatever arrangement of garment
to match.
And then, days and days down the road,
for miles of green mountain and infinite sky,
too dear now, to say goodbye,
they’re nestled into white tissue
in a box at the back of the closet
where the rest of a life well loved collects.
And uncovered at times
just to look at their shape
and remember
what touched
the sole.

Single Bed

28 Oct

 

Ever wake up at the same time
every night and wonder,
maybe the person who should be here is also waking up,
just somewhere else?
We roll to our sides and think,
it’s strangely comforting,
to pull both edges
of the same soft night
back over shoulders
of a dream.

Surrender

9 Sep

 

I awoke from a dream.
“Surrender Dorothy”,
in curling black
across the rainbowless sky.
Reminded.
So noted, you faiththiever.
You witch whose whispers
of someday being never
are encased like relics in coffinblack satin, and charnal green.
Time slips,
each second slides toward the hourglass maw.
Oh beloved, a pair of red shoes.
Oh beloved, a home.
Oh beloved, lost.
Aunt Emma’s face in the mirror
lined by seventy six years
of solitary trod.
You will not win.
You will not scour
my last few hours of their light.
Red feet do not yield.
Cornfields do not cry.
Courage, is when a dustdry
heart in bluebird rage replies,
NEVER.

Archipelago

30 Jun

 

I made a wish this morning.
The same wish I make every day.
Are there places where they wash up
like sparkling shells on shores,
each one a tiny invitation
stacking like stars?
One day, I imagine
they’ll grow larger than the ground
where they land,
begin to crumble in piles and grains
watered by salt and shaping wave
into a bridge.
One morning I’ll carry the last wish across
like a gift
So bright, so clear.
So ready,
for unwrapping.

Significance

21 May

 

Most mornings,
I wake to the farpresence
of Time, like a lumbering forty-five years
carpet slippered darling,
scruffled and cross,
rummaging coffee and eggs
in a just waking winter kitchen.
I feel not so much the padded hollow
where His body lay
for my unconscious hours,
but only precious vivid seconds which remain
while His heat
evaporates across creases
in the linen sheet.
Layer by layer our souls grow
toward each other till touch,
Lover Time and I.
Like trees, ringed.
We are already one,
but soon,
infinite

Snowed

30 Mar

 

Phone, still.
Coffee.
Toast.
A perfect 7 minute egg.
Movie.
Read.
Nap.
Wander staircase to windows.
Birds eating seed.
Nest under the eaves.
Short long day.
Grey sun done.
Wine, red.
Candle, bath and blanket.
Phone, still.

You, in my thoughtarms
making moonbroken circles across
the wide white night.

January 17, 2018

 

Open Ocean

20 Mar

When I woke up, it smelled like someone was making breakfast.
Some things, I’ll never understand.

I’m not going to cry.

I’ll get up.
Dress comfortably well.
Go have tea and oats.
Organize my life for tomorrow.
Sit, dream and watch people.

If there was a dart to throw at one point of the world
where the flower of dreams blooms,
I could attach a strand of red wool
and chain stitch toward the plotpoint of
where I’ll find you.

But for now it’s tea and oats
and forgetfulness in focus,
shuffling tiny stacks of details
like sand bars to navigate before
open ocean.

And I’ll leave this treasure map
unfixed or finished.
Because finding one’s way
is never smooth nor even
especially when light becomes
more precious than the prize.

January 15, 2018

Not Yet

13 Mar

 

On morning winterwakings
sometimes I speak
into the cold quiet
to break the breath of the comatose air,
a Lazarene call
under quilted cloth and doubt.
“Don’t think to Spring,” I whisper,
“to sparrows in the redtree,
to when earth opens for Love and tears.
Right now is not leaving you.
Each Janus breath flows shallowblue
over his cold shoulders
and your warm feet.
Lie like a cold seed,
a promise,
covered in a coat
of bitterblack.
Let the numbed edge of wasted word and expectation
bruise, blacken and fall
from your collar and cuff.
Look up.
Cheer the last leaf on the limb
still waving welcome at dawn.
If she can greet the heatless sun drybrown in breathless praise,
you can, one green morning
unfurl a slim arm
newborn,
and catch her
final fall.

January 10, 2018

 

Mistress Mana

9 Mar

 

Mistress Mana
waves her sovereign hand,
delivers a crisp scripted
edict of feathered stars
over slope and broken rock.
Her white whisperlaw is read
at every window.
“Today ye shall
sleep,
make love,
tell story,
wrap your body in blanket, sock,
and pillow.
Eat and drink
by the pyre
of felled oakprinces.
Unlock the heartchest
and play games of chance
with memory.
And when the darkness falls,
ye shall breathe out
onto the blackblue
mirror of night
warmwhite exhaltations
For I am.
I abide.
Even in the silent pause,
between each degree of earth’s turning .”

December 9, 2017

Pithmaking

12 Dec

 

I do not measure
my heart in sunrise
and sunset,
though the glory
of colorcoming
and lightleaving plays it’s part
in the drama of days.
But in leaf and limb,
inhaling and exhaling.
In spans of inevitable green
and glorious gold
before fallingdoubt and near deathsleeping.
I learned to love
from oaks
who know this secret,
a faith coded into their ringbones
repeating return.
They keep the soft velvet
beneath,
the touchbend and retreat
from sky, a clockcase
full of
freedom and foreboding.
Yet adore the sun,
like a fickle lover
here one day, gone the next,
needing and abiding equally.
Damned delicious sun!
Longing is to sigh again, green.
What can they do
but live,
dressed in lush love
or bear quiet cold
in naked dignity.
till his return?
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