open

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you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,

 

here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and

 

tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs

 

to follow down

this crooked path.

 

you create your own

paucity of time, which

 

is always

just enough,

 

just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you

 

dig through hidden

portholes, running

 

straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;

 

swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.

 

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happy belated birthday, baby blog <3

one year old

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet.

 

Yesterday was one year since I began blogging here in this little corner of the world. It has been quite an adventure, and I have crossed paths with some wonderful people.

 

Mostly I have continued to learn and grow and make mistakes and feel joy and pain and hear my own voice and put myself out there and pick myself back up after falling. Yep, sounds like a full first year.

 

This card from my mother seems to sum it all up well, this thing we call life:

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Happy belated birthday, baby blog. <3 Thanks to all who stop by, read, comment, and toddle along with me.

 

 

in this room for the living

in this room for the living,

this calico chirping

 

in the window, thinking

she is a red, red robin;

 

this lantern singing,

this green brush growing

 

her lush periwinkle comb,

grooming me into the next

 

branching under which i am

disarmed by the charms

 

of soft pine stories, gently

pressing their charges

 

against me as i walk,

walk, walk into dissolve.

 

new territory

from this

window well

gridded cell

 

i suddenly see the silver-fish-peacock

streaming and sparking in the peripheral;

 

our giant glass eye with kaleidoscope lashes

meets in the middle

 

–blue-green-red-white waves and flashes–

 

behind which the great

wheel cogitates:

 

the quiet cut of

terror.

 

it would have been beautiful,

this alien trope of light,

 

had it not been lodged deep

inside my eye,

my brain –

 

stealing my vision, my clarity,

my ability to see, read, be, sustain.

 

after it passed, and the brief relief set in,

the cat and i exchanged knowing looks across

the old-new scent-filled floorings:

 

this was new territory.

 

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stretch the spirit-head high

i wake each morning

to a sun-filled kitchen,

familiar cup of coffee;

 

i feel new.

 

but by night-fall i am

in mourning for

the old.

 

i know, this too shall pass;

which is its own

 

kind of sadness.

 

i slowly ease in and dig my

shell into this fresh sand:

 

letting the tiny grains

patiently move me along –

 

millions of time-wise

crystalline hands.

 

i keep one eye on the tide,

stretch the spirit-head high

 

to the deep-wide horizon.

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how we die

carrying a pizza box up-hill,

balancing two cold cylinders atop a softening square;

 

listening to the klee-klee-klee of the kestrel,

calling and climbing and diving for food;

 

building a race-car without brake clips,

forging full-speed-ahead;

 

stealing a few  lone  hours at midnight,

catching ghost moments in the quieting hum;

 

kicking off slippers bed-side,

leaving for morning should you wake;

 

every month is a miracle under-girded thirty-some times by the words:

this is the day.

turret syndrome

in concentric circles

these sun-saturated planks

 

constrict the heart

of the house,

 

make it feel — over

and over again.

 

in slippery socks

you walk the ranks

 

you know so well,

eyes shut.

 

floating far above in a spiral-pocket

of deadening air, a hair of respite

 

plucked from the hard

wick of existence.

circles