This place is part of my history but what speaks to me now are cracks in the ice, shifts in the riverbank, and tired stark beauty of the trees.

I don’t hear ghosts as much anymore, which is a relief. A lot of painful wounds have grafted closed, leaving rough ridges to step lightly over.

I see my reflection in the stately swollen winter river and I’m not sure what it means, probably just that I’m still looking down too often.

It’s just that I tend to trip over my own feet so much, looking up is a real act of bravery for me. I’m not particularly brave, just curious and eager and ready for the season to change.

January 31, 2022 0

Delicate

There’s a trace of lavender in the air.
The books are resting quietly.
I’m on my third caramel.

I’m thinking about what constitutes tragedy.
What is grace and when can we let go?
The sun has boldly made an appearance.
Is that a sign to look up?

The days will spin with or without.
There’s room for every emotion.
I’m on my third one of those too.

January 25, 2022 0

The birds keep coming back,
even in snow and ice;
I guess they always will.

Sometimes grief can make you
forget the life that’s left
to weather the seasons.

Loss can shine a light
on blooming branches and
flight of birds hungry for more.

January 24, 2022 0

Getting Up

I’ve been there when the mirror shows
a face I barely recognize.
When the pain of movement or even
thinking about the effort it would take
to move the muscles necessary to get up
is excruciating. I have imagined
a thousand ways to disappear. I know
the dark as intimately as I know
my own hands. And yet it is tomorrow.
The sun is actually shining off the snow.
My legs are carrying me without complaint.
I hold my cup of tea like a communion
with a force greater than myself.
Cheers, I whisper, to those gone
who may or may not hear me.
The sound of morning is sharp
but not as piercing as yesterday.
I ache but it’s a living ache, not a dying one.

January 21, 2022 0

When the sky and the hills
and the road and the grass
are all the same ashy grey
and the morning song is a muffled cry
with thousands of wings fluttering,
whatever falls is part of the grey
as it is hard to tell which way is up
and we are part of the grey
because the light is elsewhere
for the moment.