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.

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.

With plenty of places to disappear
even as the world and time and light
all grow smaller,

there is a shelf full of hiding places
for my psyche (mostly Arctic- I choose
not to dwell on ‘why’ too much).

Like important geologic formations
some movement is indiscernible,
and like big philosophic climaxes
some whispers are like shouts.

We meet in our thermals
with no barriers.

A griffin types furiously on the old Royal
as ivy and ferns try their damndest
to coil around the return key.
A land-locked scuba diver keeps a tally
of how many licks does it take
to get to the center
for our dear ballerina, who toils
amidst the brambles to seek the beauty
of release and with that, a leap into the One
whose hands can shape mountains
and cradle stars.
The griffin smiles, and it’s wicked, sweet,
as the story rises from behind the ribbon.