In the middle of a silent wood,
wondering at the dreams
of sleeping animals beneath the snow.
Being as still as possible
with breath being the only sound.
Once in awhile, a small chirp
and a light flutter of faraway wings.
Awe fills this ordinary day
when heavy, weary feet pause
to listen to nothing.
Even the waters have hushed
in reverence to winter’s chill.

It’s messy but should be simple.
I can’t say when it began
or why. I sort of know how.
We both know what it is.

But I don’t question some things.
That comes from experience
and finding knowing less can be better.
It allows more room for magic.

I will read you a poem I like soon
and I wonder if you’ll be able to hear
how I feel between words
that are not mine.

This is as simple as the night fractal,
when moonlight ruffles a sleepy tree
or morning sun nudges a furled fern.
And it sounds like a groaning cello.

I watch the same dance over and over
online with the music muted,
noting the exaggerated expressions,
dramatic flourishes, and lithe dancers
moving like panthers together
while I sit like a puffed pastry
with only a wisp of muscle memory
from when I danced.
I can still move and be salacious,
but there seems little call for it nowadays,
as the woman in the mirror is
fully grey and swollen,
more a cushion than a catalyst.
There is still a need to move though.

What a grey day!
If I were a painter,
I could convey the drear
in heaps of paint
(I am too heavy for watercolors
at this point in my life)
but I like to watch
so that makes me a watcher
and I write poems
so that makes me a watcher who writes,
so in too many words,
I can describe the layers of wet and grey
to convey the warm winter’s day
with maybe some of the sadness
but not the ever-bubbling sense of hope
that keeps pushing through
because I am a watcher who writes who
also looks for color
because color is linked to hope
and I am a watcher who writes and hopes
who is maybe in love and a little foolish too.

Color is secondary to light
Choices are intermittent and arbitrary
Quiet is a luxury
Everyone is sad
Flowers are extraneous
Flying a kite is mandatory
A shield of propriety is nice
I’ll never make it
Reading is a good way to disappear
Shoes should be comfortable
Gravy should be assumed
Intellect supersedes kindness
Nonsense can fit in a box
We are interplanetary missiles
It’s ok to climb a roof to see the stars better
Rules are optional