wintry blast
smacks you in the face
waking while walking
looking for life
finding absence of color
stark angles
jagged turns
echo thoughts askew
cold, still violence
rampant in the doldrums
limbs frozen in a breath
not dead but dorman
an impression
“paint your palette blue and gray… with eyes that know the darkness in my soul…shadows on the hills… in colors on the snowy linen land… soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand… now I understand”
driving by rote
never seeing beyond the steering wheel
something moved just out of sight
when I looked
the scenery was a blur of snow, trees, pastel sky
and it was terribly wonderful
a moment, a snapshot
a jolt from an artist I should recall more often
beyond the cliche is the truth about time
and how it passes
(italicized lyrics, Don McLean “Vincent”)
scream to the trees
clearing her throat before screaming to the trees
the moss buffering her cries
nowhere else did she feel so free
to sit and laugh and roll in the leaves
not a nymph or a sprite but a real human girl
finding solace in the forest all the same
on her own despite having some place in the world
but she never felt connections like this or felt heard
she reveled in the seasons and how she changed too
how vibrant then faded they all became
stalwart her tree friends, they listened, it’s true
closer she felt to the earth as they grew
Take a Walk
My kids roll their eyes as I stop to take yet another picture. This time, it was a dew-drenched spider’s web. “Why do you take so many nature pictures?” they ask. “You must have a million shots of flowers and trees and stuff,” they say in their childhood- approved hyperbole. “You can never have too many pictures of trees,” I tell them. “Why?” they ask earnestly. Before I embark on a soliloquy of why I love the mighty structure of trees and the delicate strength of flowers, I pause, realizing my children may need a gentle reminder of what’s important and beautiful and valuable. Time to put away gadgets and take a walk.
Torn
Torn apart on the bleakest day
I’m scattered to the winds
Like dandelion wisps
Across skies and fields
Pushed beyond my ken
I long to rest my weary head
Halt my frantic pace
To plant my feet
Unfurl some roots
To just sit still and breathe
When the pieces are picked up
And I’m pulled together again
Who will it be
How will they see
And will they want me still
Rushing through
Broken and cracked
Tired and spent
Senses stripped
This is how I am
Torn apart again and again
The barrage never ends
Don’t discount me
Don’t forget me
I’ll keep my words in the wind
The Word Rummager 